Unexpected Beginnings
by GrimmGirl8
Summary: Second of five. Nervously awaiting the birth of his daughter, John Watson seeks to hold onto his past, only to discover a secret of Sherlock's, instead. John digs deeper, finding out more than he ever cared to know. Will what he discovers colour his view of his friend forever? Post Christmas Special, written before Series Four. Spoilers.
1. Expecting

_Sequel to "The Trial of Sherlock Holmes."_

**Chapter 1**

_January 2015_

Dr. John Watson sat inside the speeding cab, bouncing his leg as he watched London race past the windows. Finally. After days and days of nothing. _A case._

Before the cab had even come to a full halt, the expectant father had one foot on the pavement. He pulled out his money so hastily that he practically dropped it into the street drain. There's nothing like a case; patching together evidence, finding a suspect, the thrill of the chase. Oh, the chase. John hated to admit it, but he had become almost as addicted to solving cases as Sherlock. Plus, a case would be a much welcome change right now. Just a few moments when he didn't have to think about choosing the right pram, what color to paint the nursery, which brand of nappy was the best…

In his excitement, John found himself practically skipping to the police barricade only to find a tall, thin figure in a long charcoal coat striding toward him. John's step slowed and his face fell as his friend and colleague passed the police line and headed for the street without breaking stride. "John! You were a long time."

"Where are you… You can't possibly have solved it already!"

Consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, hailed the cabbie John had just paid, opening the door, pausing to turn back to his blogger. "Mugging gone wrong. The victim's body positioning was merely a consequence of the combination of her severe lumbar hyperlordosis and use of krav maga in self-defense. Sad, really. Grade G-4 like her. She put up a tremendous fight, but five gang members, three with a military background, would be too much for anyone."

John sputtered, crest fallen, frantically looking around as though searching the air for a reason for Sherlock to stay. "What… Why not… If we don't catch them, they may do it again…"

"I've given Lestrade all the information he needs to find them. They weren't exactly shy about leaving evidence. Shouldn't take long, even with the Yard's inferior task force."

John continued to scan the air for help, open mouthed, as Sherlock seated himself in the cab. Before closing the door, Sherlock looked up at the distracted doctor.

"Don't worry, John. Given Mary's increased cravings for salt and her decreased desire to remain still for long periods of time, it shouldn't be long now. Then you'll never be bored again."

With a quick wink, smile and click of the tongue, Sherlock closed the door and the cab sped away, leaving John standing on the curb, wondering what exactly had just happened.

When John had regained his ability to keep a single thought in his head for more than three seconds, he was overcome with the singular desire to punch something. With a renewed sense of purpose, he made a 180 degree turn. He strode toward the police line with such ferocity as to frighten the rookies guarding it. Bursting past the barrier, John approached a silver haired man whose back was to the street.

"Greg Lestrade, you bastard!"

The man so named jumped at the sound of the sharp tone in which his moniker was uttered. John secretly relished the small sign of fear exhibited by the Detective Inspector. Greg turned slowly, smiling with as little guilt as he could muster. "I'm sorry, John, I did try…"

"You promised! 'This is it, John. There's no way he'll solve this one in less than a week!'"

"Yes, well, I may have overestimated the timeline, slightly…"

"Fifteen bloody minutes!"

"Actually, he only arrived about six minutes before you did," a small voice near Lestrade's knee uttered.

"Yes, thank you very much, Anderson!"

John began sputtering and looking about the night sky again. A comforting hand braced John's shoulder, bringing his focus back to the planet Earth. "You need to relax, John. Take some time. Find something to distract yourself between now and when the baby's born."

"How bloody thick… That's what I'm trying to do!"

With a deep sigh, Greg frowned, releasing John's shoulder. "Go home, John. Have a cold beer and enjoy the silence of a child free home while you still can. You don't need any more excitement than you already have. Alright?"

With a pat on the back and a small smile, Greg turned back to his colleagues, leaving the good doctor to silently fume at the back of the detective's head.

As John turned back reluctantly, wondering exactly how long it would take to hail another cab, he became mildly aware that his vision had blurred with disappointment. It wasn't about being distracted from what was coming. He had made peace with that long ago. In truth, he was genuinely excited about becoming a father. It's something he had secretly wanted for a long time, convinced he could do the job better than his father. No, it was about having one more big case, one last hurrah. Before everything changed, forever. Before he became responsible for more than just the lives of a beautifully mysterious ex-CIA operative and a slender high-functioning sociopath. As if that wasn't difficult enough.

As he stood on the curb, lost in thought, he caught sight of something sitting in the alley across the street. For a second, John saw the person and the motorbike as being a single, black figure. It was the briefest of moments, as a lorry chose that instant to illegally park along the road, blocking the alley from view. Later, John would recall the black leather clad rider as being much taller and more threatening. For now, however, he almost immediately dismissed the incident, counting his good fortune that a cab had just slowed to a halt in front of him.

…

Over the next several days, John's mood continued to spiral downward. No cases, no clients, not one single murder. His faith in the inevitable foulness of the human race was beginning to wane. Where was the scum of the Earth when he needed them most?

He found any opportunity to leave the increasingly small flat, making multiple runs to different shops in opposite parts of town. John also seemed to have lost all concept of how to get around London. Frequently, he missed his stops on the tube leaving him blocks from his destinations, or chose to take a cab in bad traffic when walking would have been quicker, or decide to walk blocks out of his way rather than taking the hundreds of short-cuts he now knew by heart (thanks to Sherlock).

This absent mindedness wasn't out of malice or discourtesy. Hell, it wasn't even intentional. It was John's thoughts taking complete control of his brain, causing him to lose all concept of time and space. His mind never seemed to stop and settle on a single thought for more than a few seconds. Everything from names to child-care to health concerns. Bouncing from one subject to another like the worst pinball game in history. How does Sherlock do this without going stark raving mad? On second thought…

More often than not, John found himself in front of the consulting detective's door on Baker Street. For what could have been hours, he did nothing but just stare at the door, never entering. That wonderful, familiar door. There was something very comforting about the dark wood stain, the friendly bronze 221B, the welcoming heavy knocker. Perfect in all its imperfections. Every knick, every splinter, a badge of honor. It had endured countless angry banging fists, a couple of police raids, several break-ins and one explosion. Yet, here it stood. Steadfast and unchanging. It was here, and only here, that John's mind would quiet to a low hum.

It was here that he saw the leather-clad motorbike rider for the second time. What caught his interest most was the fact that, as the rider sped away, the helmet turned. He couldn't be sure with the tinted guard, but John could have sworn he was the focus of the attention.

John only looked away when a small buzz emitted from his pocket. "Did you get lost again? Your tea is getting cold."

...

John ran almost the entire way to the crime scene. He stood so close to the doors of the tube train that they almost closed on his nose. When he reached his final stop, he took the stairs 3 at a time. Please, please, please let this be it! She could be any day now. Just one more!

John nearly screamed when he saw Sherlock walking towards him once more.

"No, not again! There has to be something you missed!"

"John..."

"A hair, a fiber, an ash burn!"

"John..."

"Do the thing where you figure out that the victim has been in Peru and had mob ties, putting the very fate of Britain at risk!"

"John! Relax! We have a case!"

With those words, a weight that had not left John's shoulders for over 3 weeks, lifted. He suddenly felt his spine straighten, bringing him to his full, albeit short, height. He didn't hear a word said to him all the way back to the street. He was so elated that he started to follow Sherlock into the waiting cab, before a friendly voice caused him to look up.

"Opposite sides of town, John."

John stared blankly at his friend, slowly comprehending what had just been said. "Oh, yes, of course. Silly me."

"Go home, John. Kiss Mary and get some sleep. I have some experiments tonight and then we'll start first thing in the morning. Don't be late!"

"Not on your life!" With no small amount of glee, he shut the cab door, giving the top a louder than necessary pat. John's smile lingered long after the cab had disappeared from sight.

As he looked away, trying to spy another cab, a now familiar sight caught John's attention. In a matter of milliseconds, every hair on the back of John's neck was raised.

This time, however, there was no mistaking the piercing eyes behind a tinted visor, taking in every inch of John. That steadfast, hidden, menacing gaze. It was a threat. It was unnerving. It was an invitation. An invitation which John accepted.

With a deep breath, John suddenly felt every fiber of his being shift. Every muscle became tense, every nerve aware, every sense heightened. Suddenly, it was Afghanistan all over again. That sense of impending danger and the unparalleled desire for survival. With a final deep breath to solidify this warrior state, John bellowed into the dark.

"Oi, you! What are you gawking at?"

Before waiting for a reply, John bolted across the street toward the alley, narrowly avoiding being struck twice by passing cars. As the driver of a Fiat hurled abuse, the rider remounted the motorbike, sped down the alley and turned a corner.

Fueled by adrenaline, John raced into the alley, nearly tripping over rubbish that hadn't quite made it to the bins. He was overcome with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Who was this ghost? Why did they keep following him? Why, on Earth, did it excite him so bloody much?

John skidded to a halt as he rounded the corner, only to find that the specter had stopped halfway down the service road and turned to face him. Driven by the rush of a half block sprint and the fear of the unknown, John found himself breathing heavily and with great volume. Before he was able to find his voice, which was brimming with questions, the figure dismounted the bike, causing John to tense with anticipation.

With a mighty flourish, the black-clad rider removed the matching helmet, revealing a cascade of chocolate locks.

"So, you must be the famous John Watson. We meet at last."


	2. Rude Awakening

**Chapter 2**

_June 2009_

Sherlock lay face down on top of the unkempt bed, surrounded by dozens of loose leaf pages which spilled onto the floor. The small flat was lit only by one high window. Daylight poured through, hardly diffused by the thin, off-white curtain. Suddenly, a loud banging rang out, causing the consulting detective to move for the first time in ten hours. Without removing his face from the comforter, he let out a low groan of protest. The banging continued, more loudly and with greater speed. Sherlock groaned again, this time tilting his head slightly so as to half uncover his mouth.

"WHAT?!"

"Open up, Holmes! I'll not ask you again!"

"You've not asked a first time!"

"OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR!"

Placing both palms flat on the bed near his shoulders, Sherlock pushed himself up with great effort. Now on his knees, he stretched catlike across the bed, then rolled over the papers, planting his feet on the floor. Despite his drowsy state and half open eyes, Sherlock crossed the flat being careful to avoid the massive amounts of clutter littering the floor. Making no effort to do so quickly, Sherlock unlocked the door, but did not remove the chain. Through the small sliver of light, Sherlock could now see the short, fat, angry man standing on the other side.

"How may I be of assistance?"

"You haven't paid me yet!"

"That would be because I don't have any money."

"That's the fourth time in as many months!"

"Very astute observation."

"And what the bloody hell is that bloody smell?!"

"You really shouldn't use as much vulgarity as you do, you know. You're not very good at it."

"Let me in!"

"No."

"I am your landlord! I have rights!"

"As do I. I am your tenant."

"LET! ME! IN!"

With three great shoves, the hefty landlord barged his way into the tiny flat, shattering the chain into several pieces.

"I assume you'll not be taking that out of my deposit?"

"Heh! You lost that when you let mice loose in the flat!"

"That was an experiment to test..."

But the landlord wasn't listening. He was now staring wild-eyed at a pile of rubbish that seemed to be moving.

"...oh that. Yes, well, that experiment did go a bit awry..."

"It's mouldy."

"Well, it's mold. It will tend to do that."

"Out."

"Sorry?"

"Get. Out. NOW. I'm evicting you, effective immediately! You have 6 hours to pack up your... _things_ and get out!"

"The tenancy agreement states that I have 24 hours to..."

"KEEP PUSHING AND IT'LL BE 3!"

With as much speed and ferocity as he could muster, Sherlock bolted across the room toward the landlord. Using a long, pale arm, he shoved the small man into the opposing wall. The force and shock knocked the wind out of the landlord, who now looked up in fear at his towering and surprisingly strong tenant. Continuing his trend of using a calm, yet meaningful voice, Sherlock spoke.

"I can think of 17 different ways to paralyze you from the neck down using only objects that are currently within my arm's reach. Now, we can do an experiment to see how much damage I can inflict on you with a throw pillow, or you can give me the full 24 hours and I will be out of your hair forever. What will it be?"

The man, now white as a sheet, took a loud gulp and spoke so softly that Sherlock had to strain to hear him.

"Twenty... Twenty four hours. Then I'm calling the police."

Sherlock released the man who then took off through the still-open door like a shot. He watched as the small man sped down the hall before slamming his office door closed. Sherlock slammed his own before flopping back onto the bed, sending several papers flying which then lazily floated onto the floor. He had almost returned to sleep when a loud knocking rang around the room, once again. With what could now only be described as anger, Sherlock leapt from the bed, flinging open the door.

"What, back for seconds?!"

As the door flew open, however, a slender, silver-haired man stood in the doorway. A small smirk crossed his lips as he spoke.

"Not sure what you're referring to, but I think I'll pass."

"Lestrade. You're here. Which means there's been another one. Different this time?"

"Yes. Sorry, can I come in? There is a very angry man staring at me from down the hall."

Sherlock walked back into the flat, leaving the door open for Lestrade, who closed it behind himself. Sherlock casually started picking up papers from the floor and throwing them into an even more disheveled pile. Lestrade looked around the room with a slight look of disgust creeping across his face. He tried to hide the look when Sherlock turned, but he should have known better.

"So, the case, there's something new this time?"

"Yes, but can we discuss it on the way? I've got a cab waiting."

"Cab? Why did you get a cab? You normally just take the... Oh."

A sudden and crushing realization came over Sherlock's face.

"Look, it's for your own good. The Yard thinks I'm crazy enough as it is, bringing you in. You could at least help me out by..."

"I'm fine! You hear me? It doesn't affect the work. It doesn't affect my mind! Everything else is..."

"Transport, yes, I know. But it does affect how others see you..."

"If I cared how others saw me..."

"..._and _that affects how your help is perceived. Trust me, people will listen to you more if you're less..."

Lestrade paused making a sweeping hand gesture in Sherlock's direction, up and down the length of his body. Sherlock glared at the Detective Inspector, then began rummaging around the floor for something.

"What about this?"

Sherlock slipped a stained and wrinkled hoodie over the t-shirt and pajamas he had just been sleeping in.

"Not good enough."

"Then I'm not going!"

Sherlock sunk back onto the bed like a petulant child. He glared at his slippers intensely as Lestrade looked on.

"You asked what's different about this case. The victim?"

Lestrade bent slightly to try and catch Sherlock's reaction to the next phrase. He was not disappointed.

"She's still alive."


	3. Less Than Helpful

**Chapter 3**

_January 2015_

John stood in the narrow alley facing the leather-bound motorbike rider he had been chasing. He stood stock-still and to his full height, trying not to betray the fact that his heart was still beating out of his chest. Where he had just been overcome with a mix of mounting fear and curiosity, he was now suddenly struck by astonishment. Astonished that the rider had stopped. Astonished that the rider had confronted _him_. Astonished that she… was a _she_. The leather bike suit had done a wonderful job of concealing the rider's gender which, John thought hastily, was probably the point.

John struggled to regain his thoughts as he scanned the stranger before him. Now that he had a proper look, he had no idea how he could have ever mistaken the figure for being anything other than female. She stood in a pose so as to perfectly accent her newly revealed femininity. Every curve and line of the constricting black leather was in perfect grace with every other. The zipper on the top of her suit was undone just enough to give a hint of cleavage. Her perfectly mussed hair fell gracefully, framing her stern, but perfectly pouted, face. Her eyes burned with golden flecks which seemed to pierce John's very flesh.

John swallowed hard, closing his eyes briefly, subconsciously turning the ring on his left hand. With a deep breath that seemed to take a lifetime, he regained his composure, and subsequently, his anger. "Who the bloody hell are you and how do you know my name?"

"Now, Doctor Watson, I don't really think that's very important, do you? Not the question you really want to ask, anyway."

Swallowing again, John took a deep breath. He tried his best to remain calm as Afghanistan continued to pulse in his ears. "Why have you been following me?"

"Because I needed to ask you something and I didn't want to be overheard doing it."

John was taken aback, and slightly disappointed, by the simplicity of the truth. However, his curiosity would not abate. "Well, go on, then. You've gone through this much trouble. Spit it out."

"Such a vulgar term. As if words were poison, or something horrid to be expelled."

"Get on with it!"

The woman took a deep breath, as if daring the silence to drag on longer. John looked on, waiting eagerly for a resolution.

"Your colleague, Sherlock Holmes…"

Of course it was about Sherlock. When was anything like this _not_ about Sherlock? John's spine bristled, causing him to stand even straighter, ready for anything…

"... is he sober?"

… Except that. John was so astounded by the question that he actually stepped slightly backward. Sherlock's drug use wasn't exactly common knowledge, even after the Magnussen thing. Besides, the incidents had been few and far between until just recently. The first time he'd even heard that it might be an issue he was in disbelief for days, even after it had been confirmed by Sherlock himself. Since that time, it had only ever come up a couple of times, either being passively mentioned or actively not mentioned. In fact, the few times John had experienced it first hand, Sherlock had insisted it had been for a case. A flimsy excuse, but to Sherlock, there was no greater reason.

John stared at the stranger, still perplexed by the entire situation. When he finally did find his voice again, it was somewhat broken and stammering.

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't know who told you..."

"You really shouldn't lie, Dr. Watson. You're rubbish at it."

"I'm not... Sherlock Holmes is one of the most revered and sought after consultants in the _world..._"

"Who has a long history of drug abuse because of it. You don't need to pretend otherwise, I have first hand knowledge of the fact. Now please, answer the question. I've not got all night."

Rage built in the army doctor. Questions and their possible answers whizzed around his brain like rockets.

"How... If you think... If you have something to ask Sherlock, you can ask him yourself!"

"Yes, but since the answer determines whether or not I speak to him..."

"Yes, of course he's sober. I've never known him otherwise..."

"Lie."

John sputtered again. His fists were now closed so tightly that his palms stung with the pressure of his fingernails.

"He is sober."

"Yes, but for how long? Two years?"

John remained silent.

"One year?"

Again, John simply stared at his tormentor.

"Less than a year. Or… Much less than?"

John removed his eyes from the woman for the briefest of seconds before he'd realized he'd done so.

"Ah. So, how many months? Or weeks?"

Again, John looked down for the briefest moment. But long enough. The woman's eyes narrowed.

"8? 7? 6? 5?"

"Look, if you're just going to stand there reciting numbers, then I'm..."

"Five weeks it is, then. Good to know."

John looked around wildly, open-mouthed. How? How did she... But John had known Sherlock for too long to really wonder "how." He'd given up his best friend simply by reacting. Now more angry with himself than anything else, John placed his hand over his mouth, subconsciously preventing himself from saying anything else damaging.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson, you've been most informative."

With a head whip, leg kick and roaring sound, the woman was once again helmeted and back on her bike. John watched in mild horror as she sped down the alleyway.

...

John sat in his chair, staring blankly at his dinner plate. Mary had been talking for nearly ten minutes without a single word of it penetrating his consciousness. He simply stirred his broccoli around his plate like a merry-go-round from a toddler's worst nightmare.

"So, then I told him that he could have our daughter as soon as she was born if only he could turn all of the straw into gold."

John gave a small grunt of acknowledgement without looking up. Suddenly, John was aware that his wife was sliding his plate of food away from his gaze.

"John!"

"Um? Yes, I'm sorry, love. You were saying something about... Straw?"

As John looked at Mary, he suddenly felt very bad indeed. In her face he read all of the disappointment in the world that he had not been paying attention.

"I'm sorry. Truly. It's just this case..."

"Yes, you haven't said two words about it! I thought you'd be brimming now that you finally had one. But instead you act as though someone's taken your toys away from you."

John took Mary's hand in his. Looking deeply into those lovely, familiar eyes, John wanted to tell her everything. And nothing. He knew what she'd say. Tell him he needed to tell Sherlock immediately, ask him why he hadn't done so already. Why hadn't he told Sherlock? Maybe because he wanted a mystery of his own to solve. Maybe as some weird punishment for Sherlock for putting him in that position in the first place. Maybe because he didn't think Sherlock would tell him the truth if he asked. And he desperately wanted the truth.

Mary cocked her head to the side, still staring back at John. John felt the question she wasn't asking. Felt her watching the gears turning in his head. John shook off the thoughts, physically as well as metaphorically.

"I'm sorry, it's just... This case. I thought it's what I wanted, but now I just feel... I'm sorry. I was being rude. What were you saying?"

Mary stared for a couple more seconds, then continued her story. She didn't mention John's obvious lie and, for that, he was grateful.


	4. A Killer Tea Party

**Chapter 4**

_June 2009_

Though Sherlock had presented several solid arguments against a shower, shave and change of clothes at Lestrade's, he found himself sitting with sopping wet curls, in a cab, on his way to the crime scene. He had finally conceded when Lestrade threatened to leave the case unsolved, simply to spite him. He knew the Detective Inspector was too good a man for that, but he certainly wasn't above not letting Sherlock be the one to solve it. As Sherlock did not have any "crime scene appropriate clothes" (according to Lestrade), the detective had lent him some. The consulting detective looked even smaller and thinner in the borrowed clothes. The sleeves of the shirt cut short, the neck gaped and the trousers were barely held on by the belt. Reluctantly, he had put on the garments, noting several details that revealed secrets about the DI. Secrets which he would keep record of, until such time as when reciting them proved useful to him. The cab ride was an exchange between the two men reviewing what little evidence the suspect had left in the flat. Well, that which the Yard had found, anyway.

As the cab pulled up, a body bag was being wheeled on a gurney towards an ambulance. Sherlock approached the solemn scene, examining the cart from top to bottom.

"Hello, Sergeant Donovan. Nothing serious I hope. That would be a _huge_ loss to the Yard."

"Keep talking, freak, and it'll be you in this stinking bag, instead of me!"

Lestrade held up a hand, stopping Sherlock from replying, speaking instead.

"Alright, settle down now, Donovan. Remember, you're dead. Call me when you've left the morgue, yeah?"

The body bag sighed loudly as it was wheeled away. Sherlock and Lestrade continued into the building as several officers left.

"Acting as though the victim died. Clever idea. Whose was it?" Though he'd tried to hide it, a small grin leaked through his comment just in time for Lestrade to catch it.

"I'll ignore that comment, thank you!"

The now slightly annoyed Detective Inspector led the way to the flat, where more officers milled about.

"So, where _is_ the victim, really?"

"Through here. We wanted to keep her out of sight for as long as possible, seeing as we're pretending she's dead."

As the two crossed the modest flat, Sherlock scanned the scene. An officer was taking photos of the table on which sat a tea service and two cups. Another officer dusted for prints: a complete waste of time as the killer wore gloves. Continuing on, Sherlock passed a wall of painted canvases and a small bathroom as they finally entered a cozy bedroom. Everything in the flat was tasteful and perfectly arranged while at the same time being comfortable and welcoming.

"Ms. Bunting, may I introduce Sherlock..."

"Why are you still alive?"

"...Holmes." Lestrade finished the statement with a sigh then took a seat on the bed, staring helplessly at the wall.

"I'm sorry?"

"By all accounts, you should be dead now. Face down in the other room, covered in your own sick. Why aren't you?"

"Wow. You were _not_ exaggerating." The comment was directed at Lestrade, but the girl was staring at Sherlock; who simply looked back, wild eyed.

"Start from the beginning. Spare no details."

"Sherlock, she may not want to relive..."

"It's fine, Inspector. I'm sure this won't be the last time I tell this story." A deep sigh left her lips before she continued. "There was a knock at the door; I went to answer it, thinking it was the takeaway. When I put my hand on the door, I felt a shock and everything went black."

"Taser to the door handle. Then?"

"When I came to, he had sat me at the kitchen table, tied me to the chair leaving my arms free, made tea and served it. He said he didn't want to hurt me. That he was just lonely, looking for some good conversation and companionship. Wanted me to just sit and have tea. Then he would let me go. But he just seemed... So, I pretended to drink it, talked with him for a little while, then he left. The second he did, I untied myself, brushed my teeth, scrubbed my mouth out and dialed 999."

"Seemed _what_? What did he say, what did he do? What part of _every_ detail did you not understand?!"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade had stood and leaned in, placing a hand of warning on Sherlock's shoulder. It was only now that Sherlock took stock of how he must look to the poor young girl standing before him. His face was strained, his cheeks flushed, and his torso was angled to match the girl's height. Though the girl was terrified, she had not attempted to move away from the man practically screaming, inches from her face. Sherlock relaxed, returning to his full height, but his expression didn't alter in the slightest. The girl remained intent on Sherlock's face, studying him as much as he was studying her.

"OK. From the beginning. When I came to, he apologized. Said he didn't want to alarm me, that he only wanted a little company. He said he understood if I didn't trust him, that he wouldn't trust himself, either. He poured the tea, and made sure every last drop went into both our cups. He started drinking, but ended up spilling a lot of it on his shirt and gloves, he was shaking so. I pretended to drink it. He asked about my family, my line of work, my education. When I asked him a question, he would just shake his head and ask me another one. He kept glancing at the tea pot. Like he was wondering if there was any more left. When he'd finished his cup, he stood, took the tea pot, and left without another word."

As the girl finished, she sat down on the other side of the bed from Lestrade. She appeared physically exhausted from reliving the ordeal. Sherlock studied her very carefully. Though she had recited the events with a steady and calm manner, a slight tremor shook her hand, betraying her. As usual, Sherlock was the only one who noticed.

Lestrade spoke as he began moving past Sherlock to the door.

"Based on that information, we know so much more about him, now. We know he's working alone, we know he's an excellent liar and we know that there is an antidote. The boys in the lab are still working on what the poison is, but at least we know now we can help the next time."

"Wrong again, Inspector. Wrong again!"

"About what? What am I wrong about?"

"Don't you think that, if she hadn't had a single sip of tea, a man sitting at the same table would have noticed? If his goal was to kill her, he would have forced her to drink it. Not let her carry on _living._"

"If his goal isn't to poison them, then what is it? What was the point of pretending she was dead?"

Sherlock felt something to his right and turned to see the girl. She was standing so closely that he'd almost hit her by turning. Lestrade looked over, noticing her as well.

"Maybe we should discuss this elsewhere."

"No, I want to hear this! This is my life we're talking about. Pretty soon, the news will report my death. My friends and family will see it. Think I'm dead. They'll be beside themselves. Then, I'll have to tell them I'm _alive_ after all, which I'm sure will go over _tremendously_ well. I want to know that it was worth it. That I made the right decision."

This statement caught Sherlock off guard. Furrowing his brow, he looked from Lestrade to the girl, laughing slightly.

"What, the decision to _live?"_

"No, the decision to fake my own death. So the killer wouldn't come after my family."

A wave of understanding and deep satisfaction swept over Sherlock as he slowly turned to look at Lestrade, who immediately went on the defensive.

"Well, we _could_ have thought of it! She just beat us to it!"

The wide smirk did not fade from Sherlock's face as he began speaking again.

"You've been wrong all along, Lestrade. She's not the 4th victim, she's the 8th."

"The _8th?_ Oh come on, Sherlock. If you're saying he's done this four more times and no one has noticed..."

Sherlock's frustration began to boil. He took a deep breath, about to raise his voice to almost a scream, when a soft one beside him stayed his anger.

"No, he's saying that the man across from me was a victim, too."

Sherlock released his breath and turned to the girl. He relaxed as he studied her with new appreciation. Finally, someone else _gets it._

"Exactly. The other victims had time to briefly describe their attackers before their deaths. The first man was ginger, the second fair-haired. This one was..."

"Raven."

"He's not dyeing his hair. He's not even in the room! He's watching these events from somewhere else. Watching this sick little tea party, not participating. He gets off on the female victim blaming the male victim for something completely out of his control. He orchestrates every detail remotely, kills two victims and walks away free. It is absolutely brilliant! Well done!"

"Yes, a well-executed serial murder is something to be applauded! It's just too bad I messed everything up by surviving. Maybe I should just go drink the tea and make it right."

The glee fell from Sherlock's face as he turned to see the solemn look on the girl's face.

"That's not what I..."

"How long?" The question was directed to Lestrade, though the girl was looking at the ceiling.

"Until we can find the killer. We can't risk him thinking we are any closer to finding him than last time."

"How long, what?" Sherlock's voice was slightly more raised than intended. He hated not knowing what people were talking about. It was too frequent an occurrence.

"And there is absolutely _no one_ else?"

"It may not seem like it, but he's the best man for the job. I trust him with my life."

"Who's the best man? What are you two yammering on about?!"

The girl gave Lestrade a look Sherlock normally only saw on Mycroft's face. She sighed heavily then stood, moving towards Sherlock with an outstretched hand.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm Abigail Bunting: your new flat mate."


	5. Along Came a Spider

**Chapter 5**

_January 2015_

The morning after meeting the mysterious woman, John once again found himself standing in front of 221B. In his excitement to begin the new case, he had almost forgotten the events of the previous evening.

An earlier buzz in his pocket had told him that Sherlock had popped down to the shop for a moment, but that he would be back by the time John arrived. The unlocked flat door seemed to indicate his friend had been right.

He passed the resilient front door, climbed the worn staircase and entered the small flat. Since New Year's, the once cosy (if rather unkempt) living space had been transformed. Lines of yarn crisscrossed, connecting the ceiling, walls, doors and windows, all to the middle of the room. On each end, a news clipping, photograph or other piece of evidence was affixed. In the centre, was a small piece of paper with a single phrase scrawled upon it: "Did you miss me?" Though the scene still disturbed him, slightly, John had become accustomed to the dance of ducking and dodging stings as he entered the room. And to seeing his best friend standing in the middle, going through the information over and over again.

This time, however, the doctor confronted by a very different sight, indeed. Standing at the centre of the makeshift web was a woman, dressed in boots, jeans and a very brightly-coloured pea coat. As she looked around her, the brown cascade of hair fell effortlessly around her shoulders. The waves brushed lightly across her back, almost touching the belt of the coat. John recognized her instantly, bringing up the distressing feelings so recently suppressed by anticipation. The back of his neck prickled, his back straightened, his fists clenched and his blood began to boil.

"How did you get in here?! You have to leave before.…"

But it was too late. Quick and nimble footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs behind him, closing rapidly.

"Good, John, you're here. We can get star…."

John turned toward the door, subconsciously attempting to block the woman from view. The effort was for naught, as the Consulting Detective had a good half foot on the doctor, easily spotting the woman behind him.

"Holmes. You look well."

John watched as his best friend's pleasant expression quickly changed to his more normal, stoic visage. His voice was curt and somewhat sharp, in a manner generally reserved for clients or new acquaintances.

"Abigail."

The woman adopted a pleasant smile as she moved forward, gracefully ducking and bobbing to avoid the hanging scraps of paper.

"You're looking well. Not as thin as… before. Nice place, too. And that shirt! Love, don't breathe too hard; you'll pop a button."

Sherlock did little more than blink at the woman as she came within inches of him. He held perfectly still, like a fly trying not to be detected by the spider. Her fingers travelled playfully over the front of his shirt, her grin causing every one of John's hairs to stand on end. His anger only grew as she proceeded to speak about him as though he were not in the room.

"He seems nice, your Watson. Take long to train? I know how particular you can be."

With a deep breath, Sherlock finally spoke, looking past the woman rather than at her.

"Last I heard you were in Bristol. What happened to that? Couldn't pretend to be nice any longer?"

"Last I heard, you were dead. Should have just stayed that way. Done the world a favour."

"How's spouse number… how many is it, now?"

"Three, and she's no doubt very happy with her current wife."

"If I'm not mistaken, I smell a hint of aftershave on your lips. Already been out hunting for lucky number four?"

"Saw that little love note to you in the Globe from Janine. 'Makes me wear the deerstalker.' Did you put her up to that, or is she really that creative?"

John was about to open his mouth, wanting to jump in and help his friend with the bewildering exchange. Then, hie expression transformed into a creased grin and laughter erupted from the pair. Completely caught off guard, the doctor simply stared at the two as they giggled. Still grinning, the detective turned to his companion.

"John, I'd like you to meet Abigail Bunting. Abigail is…"

"An old client. A very old client."

"A former client, let's leave it at that, shall we?"

"Well, returning client, if you'll have me. Nice to meet you properly, Doctor Watson."

Shaking the woman's hand only added to the wealth of confusion now plaguing the fair-haired man's mind. Sherlock gestured to the small chair opposite the fireplace, Abigail following his lead as he took his normal, black leather armchair. It took several moments for the fog to clear from John's mind enough for him to take his seat in the maroon armchair.

"So, Abigail, what is this matter that requires our attention?"

A frown ceased John's face as he cut off the woman's answer.

"Sherlock, I thought we already had a case."

"No, John, we don't."

"We... What? What about last night? About the..."

"I solved it before dawn. Lestrade made the arrest this morning."

"When were you..."

"I didn't want to upset you."

John's brow furrowed as he shook his head slightly at his best friend. Abigail was the one to finally break the awkward moment.

"You worked a case not too long ago, ruled it a random gang attack. A woman with lumbar hyper-lordosis?"

"Yes. She was found in Moorgate, near Cheapside."

"Her name was Katherine Jacobs. She was a technical analyst at Michaelson and Hosmer. It's a software company… Well, I'm sure you know."

"You knew the victim, then?" John's voice was still extremely tense and annoyed.

"In a way, yes. I work for an independent threat analysis group. We were asked to assess the security of resources within the company. I worked very closely with Jacobs in the weeks preceding her death. She was convinced that the company had an internal conspiracy. That she and her data were in danger. Which leads me to believe that her murder was arranged, not random."

"Her data?" Sherlock leaned forward, intrigued.

"She was developing a computer algorithm. She never told me what it did. Just that it was very powerful. And dangerous in the wrong hands. Did you find a microchip on her body?"

Before Sherlock could open his mouth to answer, it was John's turn to lean forward. "Is that why you were there, that night? To protect her? Can't say you did a very good job."

"John..." Sherlock gave a warning normally given in the reverse.

But Abigail simply chuckled. "I heard on the scanner that a body had been found. Thought it might be her. I went down to see if they would let me be part of the investigation. When I saw you…my tactics changed. Decided to stalk you, see what information I could gather before approaching you with my little…problem."

John scoffed, looking at his best friend, but his attitude almost instantly changed to shock when he saw a small hint of pride on Sherlock's face.

"What you're offering is more than a murder case?"

"Oh, so much more. Back room deals, corporate espionage, possible world-ending technology? So much more than a murder case."

The matching pair of grins now crossing their faces caused the doctor to see double. He'd never seen anyone match that wide Grinch-like grin before. It was almost frightening. The detective stood, buttoning his jacket and extending a hand to the woman.

"I'll take it. Same phone number, I trust?"

She accepted his handshake with a smile. "But of course." With a nod to John, she left the flat, still smiling.

John stared after her for a good long moment before speaking. "Who… the bloody hell... was that?"

"A case, John! One last case before Mary and the much-anticipated arrival! Don't look so glum…" He smiled, patting his friend on the back and grabbing his coat. "The game is on!"


	6. Holmes & Abigail

**Chapter 6**

_June 2009_

Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring at the unmoving ceiling fan. Each of his limbs was stretched in a different direction creating the impression of long, thin, pale veins over the dark upholstery. The couch was one of less than half a dozen pieces of mismatched furniture in the small flat. Dozens of books littered the floor creating a semicircle around Sherlock. The titles covered everything from Hemingway to Dr. Seuss, cookbooks to automotive manuals, Freud to self-help. The kitchen counters were cluttered with take-away containers and wrappers. The flat's fuse box had tripped the previous evening. Sherlock had fixed it within moments, but the ceiling fan had never fully recovered.

The heat lay so thickly that the consulting detective was only comfortable in little more than a thin robe and cotton pyjama bottoms. And those were only worn at the request of his new flatmate. Abigail sat perfectly poised in the armchair opposite him, ini her thin cotton sundress, and seemed unaffected by the heat as she read a book. It was infuriating.

Sweat clung, moist and sticky to Sherlock's half-clothed body. He could feel beads form, collect and trickle from his brow to his curls, making them sop. With nothing else to occupy his mind, he could feel his thoughts unravelling like thread from a spool.

He glanced at the clock. Two minutes past ten. He looked back to the ceiling and began counting the number of droplets forming on his fringe. He calculated how many more would form if the temperature in the room remained the same. If it fell. If it rose. He calculated the difference between the outside temperature versus the inside and how a dip in sunlight or even a passing cloud might positively affect the temperature. He calculated how long it would take for him to run out of oxygen if he locked himself in the fridge. How long it would take Abigail to run out of oxygen. He glanced at the clock. Three minutes past ten.

Sherlock filled his lungs with the moisture rich air and then exhaled in a loud, long blast which shattered the prevailing silence.

"Booooooored!"

Abigail did not react, but continued to read her book. This infuriated Sherlock even more.

"I'm bored! And hot! The heat is boring!"

Still no reaction from Abigail. Sherlock stared at her under a furrowed brow. With as much speed as he could muster, he leapt from the couch, perched on top of the coffee table and ripped the book from her hands. Abigail simply stared at the spot where her book used to be.

"I. AM. BORED!"

"You. Are. A child."

Abigail retrieved her book from Sherlock and found her page again. Sherlock stayed crouched like a disgruntled house cat.

"Three days. Three days I've been stuck in this tiny flat. With you. The most boring person in the world. In Poplar. Whose stupid idea was it to have a safe house in Poplar?! Probably Anderson's. And these rules! These stupid rules!"

Sherlock rose from his position and angrily made his way to the refrigerator, avoiding touching the ground, as if it were molten lava. A note in Lestrade's hand was stuck to the fridge door like a shopping list.

"'Absolutely no experiments, projects or practical theorising of any kind. No smoking, no drinking, no leaving, no texting! And NO CASES!?' I mean, really! I'm surprised I'm still allowed to breathe!"

Sherlock retreated to the couch in the same fashion he left it, returning to his previous position with a great sigh.

"Complaining will only make it worse. Why don't you read a book, or something?"

"I've already read them all."

"I wouldn't have pegged you as one prone to gross exaggeration."

"I'm not exaggerating. Granted, most of the books are so easy even Donovan could understand them..."

Abigail put her book down and looked over at the widely varied collection of books scattered across the floor.

"You read all of those books?"

"If the chimp is that intelligent, why does he not simply leave the zoo? He could easily prey on the misguided affections of the man in the yellow hat to escape."

"There has to be at least six dozen books in this flat! In three days?"

"Seventy-eight. I could have done it in two had I skipped all the books I've already read. Though I did leave those for last."

Abigail laughed out of astonishment, shaking her head as she returned to her reading.

"The things you can do. And you're bored."

Sherlock sighed loudly again, returning his gaze to the ceiling fan above him. He counted the number of ways he could disassemble the fan. He calculated the number of ways he could reassemble it into something other than a ceiling fan. He calculated how long it would take to reassemble it into a spinning death trap. He determined how long it would take for Abigail to realize he was constructing a death trap. He shut his eyes and sighed loudly again.

Abigail put her book down with some force as she rolled her eyes toward Sherlock.

"For God's sake, Holmes, do something other than just lie there! Look, you're so smart, why don't you fix the ceiling fan, if you're that angry about it!"

Sherlock's eyes opened with a pop and he crossed the flat so quickly that his dressing gown fluttered in his wake.

...

Nearly an hour later found the ceiling fan fixed and Sherlock in the same position as before. It had become sufficiently cool for Sherlock to put on an old, wrinkled and stained t-shirt. Abigail stood in the kitchen, making tea and sandwiches.

"You know, Abigail, if you are going to prepare food that loudly, I'd sooner you didn't do it at all."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I wasn't going to make you any at all. And, for the last time, you can call me Abby."

"'Abby' is a six-year-old girl's name. Or a monastery under the supervision of an abbot. Of which you are neither. I'd have thought you'd prefer 'Abigail.' Even though you are a twenty-three-year-old university dropout who lives off the misguided kindness of friends because you have no real goals in life. And, anyway, you always call me 'Holmes.' What's that all about?"

"Well, 'Sherlock' is a sophisticated Victorian gentleman. Or even just a gentleman. Of which you are neither. No, you are 'Holmes.' Even though you are a sociopathic, drug-addicted narcissist who is currently homeless only because he refuses to accept help from others."

"High-functioning sociopath."

"Yeah, that's the part you have a problem with!"

"You took two terms of Psychology; even you should know the difference."

"It was three. And I also took three terms of IT. Doesn't make me Steve Jobs."

As Abigail continued in the kitchen, Sherlock began to scan the room again. His eyes lighted on the floor lamp standing in the corner. He calculated the voltage needed to keep it on. He calculated the amount of voltage it would take for the bulb to explode. He counted the number of ways he could make a bomb, using only the lamp and other ingredients found in the flat. He determined the best means to create the largest and most devastating explosion possible. He sighed loudly.

"How do you stand this... Aching boredom? No task to focus on. No direction. No purpose. It's infuriating!"

"Maybe some tea will take your mind off it, you big baby!"

As Abigail began to walk to the coffee table, she gave a little smile when Sherlock turned to look at her. At Lestrade's request, Sherlock had done his best not to deduce his temporary flat mate. But his mind had become so overrun with chaos that his guard dropped. In that moment, he saw every detail, every flaw, every clue that he had stopped himself from seeing before. Each aspect of her being poured into Sherlock's mind like petrol onto hot coals. Before Abigail could reach the table with the tea, the flame was lit and it so consumed Sherlock that he could not be silent.

"Abigail, just because you feel responsible for your little brother's death doesn't mean you have to turn your under-utilized mothering instincts on me."

The tray fell to the table with a loud crash. Abigail did not raise her head, but instead stared at the wreckage. There was a long pause of deafening silence before she spoke again.

"Tell Donovan she won the office sweepstakes."

"What office sweepstakes?"

"Get out. Get out and do not come back. If he's going to find me, then let him. I'd rather be murdered than spend one more moment with you, Holmes."

She was breathing a little heavily, but never raised her voice or head. Sherlock stared at Abigail, but he didn't need to be asked twice. He stood up and straightened his dressing gown. Without another word, he left the small flat, locking the door behind him.

He walked down two flights of stairs to the front step. With a deep breath, he inhaled the air. The sweet, London air. With eyes closed and chin raised, he took in every sound of the pulsing heartbeat of London. He felt the concrete beneath his bare feet, smelled the pungent, humid air, and let the entire scene wash over him. The confinement of the flat felt worlds away already.

Sherlock pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from an inside pocket. After lighting one, he took one smooth, long drag. The smoke filled his mouth, curled down his throat, inflated his lungs, then rushed out of his nostrils in two long streams. The resulting effect was to slow his mind, long enough to focus his thought for the first time in three days. He had been too blunt with Abigail. Yes, every word was true. But it wasn't necessary to be so, so...

Sherlock took another long drag. Why were people so easily upset by facts? It was simply Truth. The only thing he truly took any solace in. Yet it seemed to unnerve others so. A final draw, then he crushed the ember on the step as he released the smoke.

Confined or not, Lestrade would never let him hear the end of it if he left now. Sherlock once again climbed the stairs to the small flat. With a deep breath, he steeled himself for the inevitable yelling match that would no doubt ensue. He tried the door which was, of course, now locked. Three gentle knocks. No answer. The floorboards creaked on the other side of the door, as if someone had shifted their weight.

"It's me. Let me back in."

Another shift of weight. Sherlock could hear soft breathing not feet from the door. She was standing right there. Why was she just standing there?

"I know you're there. Just open the door."

A slow and somewhat shaky voice answered.

"I'd really rather be alone right now. Why don't you take a walk? I should be fine in a little while."

"Not that I have a problem walking around London barefoot, but I should really just stay here. Just in case."

Again, silence. Sherlock took a deep breath to prepare for what he was about to say.

"Look, I'm... Sorry. About what I said. Please, let me in."

"Sherlock, please."

A wave of understanding rushed over Sherlock. He forced every muscle in his body not to react. Moving as little as was necessary, he looked down at the strip of light seeping through the gap under the door. Two distinct sets of shadows could be seen. She was not alone.

"Alright, Abby. I'll be back later."

Moving as casually as possible, Sherlock made his way to the staircase. As soon as he was safely in the stairwell, he flew up to the roof, taking the stairs two at a time. Racing to the edge of the roof, he looked down the side of the building in search of the easiest access point. A fire escape sat conveniently on the east side of the building. After removing his dressing gown, Sherlock moved as quietly as possible, traversing the outside of the scaffolding.

When he was just out of sight of the flat window, he trained his ear, tuning out the roar of London behind him. _Open window: the point of entry. One man. Sound of rope being tied; a piece of cloth being ripped. Both parties were in the middle of the room. The assailant would need both hands to tie her: currently not holding a weapon. Likely had a knife to cut the rope, someplace within reach._

"Ya can't escape me, dearie. I am feah'. I am death. I am the bloody grim reapah'!"

"Bit redundant, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock gracefully swung in through the open window, landing both feet lightly on the floor. He had been right: Abigail was tied to the armchair in the centre of the room, facing the window, her mouth gagged. Her eyes widened at seeing Sherlock.

"You! One move n' your girlfriend gits it!"

The man grabbed the knife from the nearby table, holding it to Abigail's throat. His eyes were wild. Sherlock scanned him from head to toe. _Unemployed at least 3 years. East End native, judging by the accent. Homeless, living in a makeshift shelter by the river for 7... No, 8 months. Grew up poor. Married then divorced fairly quickly. Blames the break up on her, not his alcohol abuse. Work related injury causing a severe limp. Dried blood mixed with freshly trampled foliage on his steel-toed work boots._ Sherlock smiled widely, laughing softly to himself.

"Oi! What's so funny, then?"

"Serial killer walks into my house after 3 days of sheer boredom? Oh, it's Christmas!"

Sherlock began laughing more loudly. The man scowled and pressed the knife closer to Abigail's throat.

"I'm warnin' ya! I'll kill 'er!"

"Oh, no you won't! If you'd have wanted her dead, you'd have done it already. No, you don't have the nerve to actually kill anyone. That's why you had others do it for you. Where'd you find them? Other homeless? No, you'd want to make more of a point than that. Dockers? Labourers? You'd approach them, asking for a job and then what? Threaten their families? You'd have to know enough about them to make it believable. So, you'd stalk them for a few days, then, when an opportunity presented itself, you'd strike? I assume you'd use the same method to find the female victims. And to find us. That's a lot of surveillance for one person to do on their own. So, do you have a partner? Or are you really so dedicated?"

"Yeah! Yeah, I got part'ners! Tons of 'em. N' they're all 'eaded this way!"

"No, I don't think so. My guess would be you just chose individuals who already lived in close proximity. Watched them at the same time. Which means, Abigail, your 'attacker' was probably someone you'd seen before. A bin man or a maintenance worker. Where did you get the poison? I must say, hiding the camera in the teapot was most ingenious. Couldn't possibly have been your idea. So, whose was it?"

"I ain't tellin' ya naffin'! Say one more word! I dare ya!"

"One. More. Word."

The man gave a howl, like a dog preparing to attack. Abigail eyes grew wider as the knife pressed more deeply into her neck. The book she'd been reading lay open, pages down, not inches from Sherlock's foot. He glanced from the book to Abigail, who shut her eyes in one long, slow blink of recognition. Sherlock looked at the man, who now pressed the knife into Abigail's neck enough to draw blood. He had to act quickly. With a hint of a smile, he cocked his head. His eyes gleamed, tauntingly.

"A serial killer who can't even kill anyone. I've never heard of anything more pathetic."

With a yell, the man swung his blade away from Abigail's neck and pointed it at Sherlock, lunging forward. The detective hooked the book with his toes and flicked it as hard and high as he could. As the book connected with the man's face, Sherlock put him in a wrist lock, breaking the joint and forcing the man to drop the knife. The would-be killed screamed in pain and made every attempt to swing at his adversary, but Sherlock was able to evade his every blow. With a mighty lunge, the intruder wrapped himself around the younger man, causing them both to fall backward through the window and onto the fire escape landing. Sherlock groaned as his back slammed into the sheet of metal, littered with broken glass, but he did not have time to process the pain. As the man on top of him rose to take another swing, Sherlock hooked both heels into the base of his ribs and kicked with all his might. As the man flipped backwards over guard rail, he managed to grab a side strut, dangling by one arm as the broken wrist fell lifeless to his side. Standing to face his attacker, with rage burning in his eyes, Sherlock grabbed the man by his broken wrist, causing him to scream in agony, as the detective pulled it closer to the railing. Sherlock grinned widely as he felt the bones crunch together in his grip.

"Unlike you, I'm not too cowardly to kill someone with my own two hands!"

"Holmes!"

Abigail had forced the gag out of her mouth. Sherlock glanced back to see her staring at him in horror. He felt a hand at the neck of his t-shirt. He barely had time to register that the man had grabbed him with his good hand before they both fell down the side of the building. Sherlock caught a glint of fear in the man's eyes as they both hit the pavement.

...

Sherlock woke up in hospital fourteen hours later, hooked to a heart monitor and an IV drip. He blinked against the harsh light, directly above him. His head throbbed, his back ached and his neck was stiff. As his eyes adjusted, he could see Lestrade and Abigail talking, just outside his door. Lestrade, who spotted Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye, turned with a wide smile and gave a 'thumbs up.' He walked forward towards the doorway but Abigail placed a hand on his shoulder and said something Sherlock couldn't hear. Lestrade nodded in agreement then banged on the window with another 'thumbs up.'

"Good job!"

Abigail smiled as she entered the room, rubbing the large bandage on her neck.

"Good morning, sleepyhead! Have a good rest?"

Sherlock pushed the button on the bed control to raise himself to a more upright position. As he did so, he felt the full physical effect of his injuries. He immediately regretted the decision.

"You've missed a lot in the last several hours. Killer's name was Collin Carver. Divorced alcoholic who'd been homeless for almost a year. They found the bodies of all three male victims buried in shallow graves by the Thames."

"Did he say where he get the idea for the camera inside the teapot? How he acquired it? What the toxin was?"

"He didn't say anything. He's dead. Took some of his own poison, before he came to the flat. Though I'm sure the fall and you landing on top of him didn't help matters. Did a number on you before he died. Doctor says you'll be fine, though."

"Multiple lacerations to the back, three fractured ribs, concussion, previously dislocated shoulder and a misdiagnosed case of whiplash. I've had worse."

As Abigail chuckled slightly, Sherlock pushed the button to recline. He groaned as his weight shifted back to his back. His mind reeled with questions as he stared at the ceiling once more.

"It doesn't make any sense. Why would he take his own life? What was his end game?"

"Trust me, I've wondered those things myself. It really doesn't make much sense when you think about it. He finds me only to not kill me? And, I'm sorry, but he didn't seem intelligent enough to pull this off."

"Did you just apologize for denigrating the memory of a man who has spent the last week trying to kill you?"

Abigail shrugged, smiling. "Nobody's perfect, after all. Not his fault he was so bad at murdering people properly."

The two chuckled, causing Sherlock to grimace with pain. The young woman gave a sympathetic wince.

"Painful, that?"

"I fell out of a two-story window onto an idiot. What do you think?"

Abigail smiled, sadly. "So… I guess this is your home for the next few days. Then what?"

Sherlock grimaced; partially at the comment, partially at the pain in his neck when he reacted to it.

"Lestrade's told you, then. I'm just a homeless freak he sometimes brings off the streets to solve cases for him?"

"Well, he certainly didn't put it like that."

"Then, how did he put it?"

"That you were between places and anyway I could help would be appreciated. Seemed to think I owe you for saving my life, or something like that."

Abigail tried to smirk, but failed to hold back a full smile. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back. It was infectious.

"Anyway, I checked around my building and it turns out that the woman next to me took my 'murder' as a sign to move to her holiday home in Southern France. Permanently. So, I took the liberty of signing your name to her lease. It's fully furnished, which I'm told by the DI is a good thing, and it's right next door to me."

"I can't afford a place in London. Not on my own. But, thanks all the same."

"Trust me, you're getting a very good deal. Nothing drives down the rent like talking to the woman who was 'murdered' in the flat next to yours."

But Sherlock stared back, perplexed.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Well, you did save my life. I figure that's worth a favour or two."

She laughed again, but this time, Sherlock did not join in. She sighed, shaking her head at the injured man.

"Just call it my misguided mothering instincts. Besides, a little extra security in the building wouldn't hurt. I'd get a dog, but that just seems like a lot of work."

"So, I'm your alternative to a dog?"

"Annoying, high maintenance, attention-seeking, concentration of a gnat… You're right maybe a dog would be easier."

She smiled widely and, finally, Sherlock joined in.

"Just say 'yes,' Holmes."

"Back to Holmes, is it?"

"Why upset the status quo?"

Sherlock's eyes creased as his thin smile grew.

"Yes, Abigail."

"Good! I'll see you in forty-eight hours, and don't you dare leave this bed a second sooner! Got me?"

"I understand."

One last smile and Abigail left the small hospital room. The moment he was satisfied she was gone, Sherlock pushed the morphine button to its highest setting.


	7. Spoonlock

**Chapter 7**

_February 2015_

After an exhausting day roaming the city, the detective had decided that all of the pieces were there, he just had to make the connection. Subsequently, the following morning found John sitting on the floor of 221B, watching as his best friend tried to make sense of it all. Instead of disturbing the web of clues suspended above their heads, Sherlock had brought in a door on which to pin the information relating to the case. John couldn't be sure but was fairly certain that it was, in fact, Mrs. Hudson's kitchen door. So there Sherlock stood, slightly stooped, staring at the photographs and scraps of paper.

The facts pinned to the door: Michaelson and Hosmer was a software company with military contracts across the globe. Their latest and largest contract was with the British Navy's submarine division. The details were classified, but it was sufficiently high profile enough that they felt the need to hire an outside independent threat analysis company to determine the security of their assets. Three weeks prior to her death, Katherine Jacobs sought out Abigail, claiming that corrupt individuals within the company were selling off delicate information to the highest bidder. Over the preceding weeks, Abigail became quite close with the victim, however it became increasingly apparent that she may not be a credible source. Though according to her personnel file she was undiagnosed, Abigail saw signs not unlike those exhibited by a paranoid schizophrenic. Eventually, Abigail stopped pursuing her claims and reported them as unsubstantiated in her final report. On her last day, Jacobs pleaded with the analyst to meet with her one last time, saying that the project which she had been working on in secret for months was in danger. Abigail agreed, with the understanding that if nothing was found from this final investigation, Jacobs would drop the subject. Abigail was on her way to meet Jacobs when she passed the alleyway where the crime scene was already being investigated by the Yard. The details of the way in which John and Abigail had met were unimportant to the case and, therefore, unimportant to Sherlock.

During the course of the morning, Abigail stopped by to see if there had been any progress on the case. After being all but completely ignored by the detective, she decided that her efforts were best utilized by making tea. After finishing her task in the kitchen, she re-entered the room with the tea tray, placing it on the desk under the bison's skull.

"Tea is served!"

"Uh-huh," Sherlock grunted without moving from his position. He had been standing in the same stance for upwards of an hour. John's back hurt just looking at him. Abigail busied herself pouring three cups of tea. John was largely focused on the task he had been given: finding a connection between the men accused of attacking Jacobs and anyone of note at Michaelson and Hosmer. The search was taking its toll on John as he entered the second hour of internet surfing. Even narrowing down the search to just those in the most classified departments, there were still nearly sixty people who might have possibly been vaguely connected to one of five men. Per Abigail's suggestion, he was pulling some favours to look into the ones with military backgrounds first.

John's search was also impeded by the continued distraction of Abigail's mere presence in the flat. His mind swam with unanswered questions, making it necessary for him to re-read several sentences. Sometimes more than once. He was in the middle of one such sentence when a cup of tea was placed near his elbow.

"Oh, cheers!"

John took a sip before realizing that he had not told Abigail how he took his tea. He was surprised to find that it tasted just as he would have prepared it. The look on his face must have mirrored his thoughts, because Abigail responded in kind.

"You don't take sugar, yes?"

"Yeah, but... Sherlock didn't tell you that, did he?"

John suddenly became very aware that while his best friend had told him nothing about this woman, the reverse may not have been true. Abigail let go a small laugh as she stirred her own tea.

"No, of course not. That'd be a bit weird, yeah? No, it was that case. You know the one. With the dog, where Holmes thought he'd poisoned you with sugar?"

A small smile found its way to the doctor's face. Why this made him happy, he'd no idea.

"You read my blog."

"I love it! I mean, sometimes it's fairly obvious you're exaggerating, but still. You really are a great story teller. You may have missed your calling."

Abigail sat on the floor beside him, idly lounging and staring at the tall man's back. John took the opportunity to put down his laptop and stretch. It was the first time he had started to relax since he had first spoken to the motorbike rider. Looking back, it seemed ages since they'd first met, even though it was only three days. Questions still swirled in his mind. Questions which he presumed, if left for too much longer, would eat him alive. Just as he was about to let them loose, Sherlock moved for the first time in over an hour.

"Pen, John."

Sherlock extended all five fingers of his right hand, palm upwards, waiting for the pen to be placed into it. Sighing, John began to stand but stopped when he felt Abigail touch his shoulder. He turned to see a wide smile growing on her face. She lowered her voice and looked at Sherlock.

"Bet you five quid we can put a spoon in his hand and he won't notice for at least fifteen minutes."

The smile turned into an evil grin as she slowly picked up a spoon from the tea tray. John couldn't help but join in, internally laughing internally at the prospect. He took the spoon from her and began to stand, lowering his voice in turn.

"Make it a tenner, and you're on."

Placing the spoon in Sherlock's hand like a grenade, John quickly returned to his seat on the floor. Sherlock curled his long slender fingers around the spoon and pulled it to his chest. The two pranksters dissolved into silent giggles. After the fit of giggles had subsided, John stretched once again and went for his laptop.

"You know, we could probably talk about anything right now and he'd never hear us."

"The man can hear a fly land two flats over; what makes you think he can't hear us?"

Keeping her voice low, Abigail spoke to the back of the consulting detective's head.

"Holmes, if you don't turn around right now, I'm going to walk into the kitchen and pitch anything that you might consider an experiment, including but not limited to body parts, human or otherwise, and anything covered in mould."

The detective did not move, which highly amused the doctor greatly. He decided to give this new game a go.

"Sherlock, I secretly shrink your clothes hoping that one day you'll flex, rip your shirt and say, 'Hulk smash!'"

Again, Sherlock did not move and, again, the two were amused beyond measure. Abigail began to sip her tea and turned to John, still keeping her volume down.

"Well, go on, then. I know you must have several questions you'd rather not have Holmes hear you asking."

John was taken slightly aback. He hadn't expected this conversation to start so bluntly, but he decided to embrace it while he could.

"Who the bloody hell are you and why has Sherlock never talked about you before now? And don't just say 'an old client,' because we both know that's not the whole of it."

Abigail breathed a small sigh and sank into a kind of peaceful bemusement. She took a sip of tea, seemingly collecting her thoughts before speaking.

"I know what you must think of me, Dr Watson. Coming back out of the blue, tied to a case, needing something from him, asking about his sobriety. I'd think the worst, too. And as to why he's never spoken of me, I couldn't say. But, if previous experience is any indicator, the past isn't really something he likes to dwell on. Unless it's relevant to a case, that is."

It wasn't an answer to his question, and yet, somehow, it put him at ease. John took the opportunity to look over the woman with fresh eyes. She was seated on the floor with perfect posture, even given that the floor wasn't exactly comfortable. Her clothes were impeccable: perfectly styled and weather appropriate. Her boots somehow made her legs appear longer, hugging them almost as tightly as her jeans. The baggy jumper actually made her appear thinner and complimented her wavy, long, unkempt hair. She was impeccable. If she was a drug dealer, she was a very accomplished one; certainly not a user herself. She bore none of the tell-tale signs of drug use John had grown accustomed to seeing, through the homeless network. Abigail stared, dreamily, back at him as she was being scanned.

"What do you see, Dr Watson?"

"I see... I see a woman who wouldn't be in this dank little flat unless it darn well suited. And I see still more questions."

"I will only answer four more questions."

"I don't understand, why only four?"

"Makes it so much more fun, don't you think? Besides, we'd be here all day if I didn't put some sort of stipulation on it."

She smiled playfully back at him. Looking more than slightly perturbed, John blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Fine, then. How do you know Sherlock, why do you seem so familiar, and why haven't you spoken in half a decade?"

John was just managing in keeping his emotions at bay. Not being a drug dealer didn't necessarily make her a saint.

"He saved my life. And not just from the man who was trying to kill me. In every sense, he saved me. From my own insecurities, from my boring life, from myself. I was his neighbour and then his assistant, for a few months, anyway. If you can call a helper monkey an assistant. But a short time is all it takes, doesn't it? For him to show you what life can be. What _you_ can be. And then, somehow, ordinary is no longer enough. Only extraordinary will do. As for our rift, it wasn't so much that as we were just finished, I think. Finished with whatever it was we were. But that is something I shouldn't discuss. It's not my question to answer."

Another non-answer that, surprisingly, served very well. Somehow, it had put John more at ease but his head still swam with questions.

"And I am counting that as three questions, so do chose your next one carefully."

John smirked and wrinkled his nose at Abigail, who simply sipped her tea, not noticing. He took the opportunity to again pick up his laptop again, while collecting his thoughts. He scanned over the names of servicemen, looking for connections between the three men and the software company. He had to reread several of the names as he found himself thinking about the right way to utilize his remaining question.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock reach down a thin, pale hand, holding a spoon, and begin to scratch at his lower leg. As he did so, the hem of his trousers lifted slightly, revealing a black box strapped to his ankle. The consulting detective's "little stunt"- as Mycroft had put it - had not gone without consequences. Lady Smallwood had organised a review regarding the death of Charles Augustus Magnussen and the apparent return of Jim Moriarty. (Mycroft had banned Sherlock from speaking halfway through after his outburst of "I _am_ the law!" had not gone down well.) As part of the compromise, to placate both the government and Mycroft, Sherlock was subject to a sort of house arrest. The ankle monitor was programmed to alert anyone from the Yard to MI6, within a hundred miles, if he left the predesignated boundaries of London. This, as Sherlock pointed out, was of no great loss to him. _"London is the heartbeat of the universe. Why would I want to be anywhere else?"_ Scratching at his leg had become an unconscious reaction to the device's presence, and quite a regular occurrence.

John returned to scanning the list of names. He knew the last question he wanted to ask but hesitated for fear of the answer. Deciding it was something he was willing to chance, he took a deep breath. He did not remove his eyes from the screen, for fear of making the situation more awkward than it was already about to become.

"Are you in love with him?"

A hollow laugh rang out next to him as Abigail smiled. This reaction immediately put John at ease, turning to look at her. Struggling to keep her voice low, due to the laughter, Abigail spoke.

"Don't be absurd, Dr Watson; of course I am!"

John's jaw dropped. His eyes became saucers. His reaction only made it harder for Abigail to maintain her composure. It was several moments before she was calm enough to take a sip of tea and then continue.

"Anyone who talks to Holmes for five minutes and does not end the conversation in love with him is either stupid or lying to themselves."

John had no response to this statement. It was a trap. One he was happy to stay well clear of.

"But were we ever romantically involved? No. Not really my type. But I can see how some women would fancy him. He is a bit of a dish, isn't he?"

Another trap which John carefully side stepped.

"I suppose this is the part where you tell me he's the brother you never had?"

Abigail paused, looking down into her tea cup before taking a sip. Her voice became lower, still.

"Something like that, yes."

"Well, I can't say I'm not happy to hear it. For a second there, I thought I had another Janine situation on my hands!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, an overwhelming sense of fault consumed him. His face reflected his guilt as he turned towards the laptop once more. Abigail a small chuckle, not noticing John's face as he frantically busied himself with the screen.

"Yes, I would like to know more about Janine. Who was she?"

Abigail casually sipped her tea, but eventually became aware that her question had gone unanswered.

"Dr Watson…"

His eyes flicked from name to name. Must find a name. Must find a distraction.

"Who is Janine?"

All at once, a miracle! John practically jumped for joy. His voice was jovial yet maintained the same volume as before.

"Oh my God! I think I've found it."

"What is it?"

In an instant, John's view of the screen was blocked by the curly locks of a spoon-wielding man.

"The CEO, Aaron Hosmer, he was an Officer in Iran twenty years ago. One of the members of his unit was…"

"H. P. Simmons! Father to one of the gang members! Come on, John, the game is on!"

With one accord, the three rose, reaching for their coats. The consulting detective stopped just before he reached his.

"Why am I holding a spoon?"


	8. Little Favour

**Chapter 8**

_July 2009_

Sherlock sat in a large, black leather and chrome chair, steepling his fingers before his mouth, eyes unmoving as his mind ticked away. The flat that had been quickly vacated, not a month previous, was now littered with the consulting detective's many random belongings. Papers, books and experiments covered the floor around him, making a harrowing obstacle course for anyone but him. The object of his focus was a mess of photographs, newspaper clippings and website printouts which had been taped to the large mirror above the mantelpiece. He was so engrossed in his latest case that he was barely aware of his flat door opening. The consulting detective continued to gaze at the collage of evidence as Abigail entered. Without looking at his neighbour, he sighed deeply, knowing that her presence was going to be an interruption he couldn't avoid.

"Don't you sigh at me, Holmes. I swear, if it wasn't for me you'd never be fed!"

Abigail walked to the kitchen to put away the shopping, actively avoiding the images of death which held Sherlock's attention. As she began to bang about the cabinets, he groaned loudly. His voice was closer to a growl than actual English.

"Planning on being long?"

But Abigail simply ignored him, looking around.

"This place is filthy. I wish you'd let me clean up a bit."

"Yes, mummy."

Though the comment reeked of bitterness, Abigail smiled.

"Now… What horrible business are you working on today, hum?"

Sherlock sighed again, dropping his hands and speaking dryly.

"Quadruple homicide, all within a fortnight. No sociological or economic link between the victims. Cause of death varies, location, display…"

Abigail winced as he continued.

"...The only real connection is that they were all found near Piccadilly. No distinguishing marks or similar wounds…"

She let out a hollow laugh, causing Sherlock to finally look at the woman whose life he had saved. Her face was bright with amusement as she spoke.

"Is that their only connection?!"

His brow furrowed as he shook his head in confusion.

"Yes, of course it is! What else is there?"

She scoffed, plopping into a chair near him.

"Holmes, they're all women!"

"So? Statistically, the majority of serial murder victims are women. What does it matter?"

But she simply shook her head, standing again.

"You know, for as much as you see, you really are blind. I'll leave you to your redressed murder victims. Afternoon!"

Before she could make it to the door, however, a bolt of understanding struck Sherlock's mind. Moving quickly enough to disturb the chair and several pieces of furniture on his way, the detective rushed to get in front of Abigail, barring her exit.

"Repeat what you said about the victims."

"Oh, now what I say is worth listening to-"

"You said 'redressed victims.' Why do you think they've been redressed?"

With a deep sigh and heavy eye roll, she pointed lazily behind her, still wishing to avoid looking directly at the images of death.

"Look at their clothes. You'd never wear that top with those jeans. In fact, the top on the first girl would look great with the skirt of the second. It's like he's taking items from his previous victims and putting them on the new ones. It's sick."

She added the last part with a look of pure disgust, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention. His mind had gone into overdrive with the new information causing the arm barring the door to relax. Seeing her opportunity to leave, Abigail placed a hand on the knob, shaking her head at her absurd neighbour.

"Have fun, Holmes. You always do."

However, the detective had no intention of allowing her to leave just yet. He blocked the door, this time with his entire body, staring down at the young woman before him.

"Are you contented? Being a shop girl?"

"Holmes, I'm not doing this-"

"This is not the life you want, Abigail, admit it."

She looked at him for a long moment before sighing and backing up slightly.

"No one wants to be a shop girl. Just nothing else panned out. Every course I took, every time I tried a new Uni…"

"That's because you wish for more than academia. You want thrill. Adventure. Danger!"

"Holmes-"

"It's why you read all those books, watch all those programmes, took all those classes. It's why you pick up dodgy girls at the pub just to sneak out the next morning before they wake."

"Watch it!"

"But nothing lasts, does it? You crave something more. Something exciting! Something that actually makes a difference in the world! So why do you settle when something more exciting is staring you in the face?"

Abigail sighed yet again, rolling her eyes. She seemed to do that a lot, nowadays. Or maybe it was just around him.

"For the last time, no, I will not go to a crime scene with you. I have no interest in looking at death every day."

"No, but you do have an interest in helping people. Every time you pass a homeless person, you give them money or food or whatever you have, despite not being well off. An old friend calls and you come to their aid within moments. Every old lady, you help to cross the street. Plus, most of the courses you've taken have had something to do with problem solving. You care, Abigail. You feel a sense of obligation to help others. I don't understand why, but you do. Now you finally have the chance to make a real difference. So why pass it up?"

Abigail considered his words very carefully. Her face relaxed as a slow churn of thought flowed through her mind. She finally spoke, very quietly, as if the entire thing were a secret.

"If I go with you, you have to buy your own shopping for a month. And don't pretend me going with you isn't doing you some sort of favour because no one asks someone to do something seventeen times if it wasn't going to benefit them in some way."

Sherlock's mouth opened and shut. He was, in fact, going to say something against her words but he figured it was best not to push the subject.

Abigail let go a sly smile as she put out a hand.

"Do we have a deal?"

He looked down at her hand, then to her eyes. They were alight with the prospect of adventure, and that was all he needed. He took her hand, shaking it only once.

"Deal. Shall we?"

He opened the door, a hand extended to show her the way. Abigail practically grinned as she exited the flat.

"I don't know what you get out of this, Holmes, but I guess we'll soon find out."

With a chuckle, the two left the flat, headed for their first of many crime scenes.


	9. Watson

**Chapter 9**

_February 2015_

The unlikely trio walked briskly toward the building occupied by Michaelson and Hosmer to confront its CEO, Aaron Hosmer. As they crossed the busy sidewalk, Abigail and Sherlock went back and forth like a dizzying tennis match as John struggled to understand the conversation.

"Harrow?"

"No, he'll never fall for it. Too risky. What about Redbridge?"

"Too many complexities. Plus, we've got John. What about Sutton?"

"Sutton? How are we supposed to get a dog inside the office?"

"Trust me, there are ways. Too bad Hounslow won't work. I always loved Hounslow."

"I'm sorry, are you two just naming parts of London?"

John's eyes narrowed as his question went completely ignored.

"We could try Bexley!"

"No, he's probably too stupid for Bexley. What about…"

"You know, if you two are going to pretend I'm not here, I might as well go home!"

"Greenwich!"

"There aren't any decent Chinese take-aways near here. I guess we could try…"

"Camden! Westminster! Kensington!"

John was now practically screaming. His two companions stopped dead, turning to look at the livid man behind them, then turning to each other.

"Kensington isn't a bad idea, actually. We have three people, one of whom has no idea what's going on…"

"Hey! Watch it, missy!"

"No, she's right. It's perfect. Good idea, John! Plus, I'm sure you'll do a damn sight better than Anderson did. Come along!"

The two turned from their shorter associate and headed into the building. John stood staring after them for several moments, blinking furiously.

"Did you two just compare me to Anderson?!"

But they were already inside the doors as John rushed to keep up. The group entered the building, led by Abigail and her still active security badge. Up in the lift, past the numerous guards, up the overly grandiose stairwell; and across from the unnecessarily obscure artwork sat a long front desk, behind which the company's name was mounted in steel and back lit by brilliant blue light. At the desk, a very nice-looking blonde woman was answering phones. Abigail gave a small wave to the woman, indicating that they were going through. As they passed, however, the woman looked panicky, ending her phone conversation abruptly and starting after them.

"Wait, madam, you can't go back there!"

"No, no, it's ok, I just want a quick word with him."

"Madam!"

The woman caught up with them just as Abigail pushed open the door to reveal an empty office. Abigail turned to the receptionist, utter shock on her face.

"He's not here? He's always here! He might as well set up a bed up in the corner! Where is he?"

Sherlock had entered the room, looking around casually, but John knew better. The consulting detective was taking this small opportunity to learn as much about the absent man as possible. He could almost hear Sherlock's mind ticking away as he scanned the room. The woman from the desk noticed his movements and started to track Sherlock nervously.

"I hardly see how that is any business of yours. And I don't think he'd appreciate you snooping, sir!"

As Sherlock turned back toward the door, John saw something white in the palm of his hand as it returned to his pocket.

"I'm sorry, I was just admiring his furnishings. Are they ash wood?"

"I... I don't know. Now, must I ask you to leave again?"

Sherlock gave such a small nod to Abigail that John would have missed it had he not known what to look for. With a sweet smile, Abigail turned back to the woman, gesturing for her to lead the way out of the office.

Back on the street, Sherlock and Abigail stopped, near a park bench, before John noticed the halt in movement. Abigail spoke in a somewhat hushed tone, though it wasn't necessary on the crowded street.

"Whatever you got had better be good. I doubt I'll be allowed back in."

Sherlock reached deeply into his pocket, removing the paper from the CEO's office, holding it up so that Abigail might read it. It was an invitation to a charity event that evening for...

"A thousand pounds a plate?! They must be barking!"

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention to John. He handed the paper to the young woman who studied it, carefully.

"Short notice, but can you get us in? I'm sure one of your former surnames can still pull some strings, now and again."

"I'll see who I still know. Two tickets or three?"

The detective turned to the doctor, smiling bemusedly.

"Can Mary live without you for one evening while you go to a party?"

"Sherlock, even if I could afford a plate, I don't own anything remotely appropriate to wear to that kind of event. I'd stick out like a sore thumb."

But his best friend just gave him that smile. That infuriating "don't worry about that, John" smile. John bristled, hunching his shoulders before sighing loudly.

"I'm sure she can do without me for one night."

Abigail beamed at John, sizing him up as she did so.

"Three tickets it is. I'll be round at Baker Street about 8?"

With a small bounce in her step, Abigail headed for the Tube as Sherlock hailed a cab.

…

John stood in a towel staring into the mirror inside his flat. The events of the past few days had been trying to say the least, but now, the most daunting task of all: facing the upper crust of society. John wasn't a snob, nor did he view those with wealth or status as inherently pompous. However, he was under no illusions as to how he was viewed by them. No family of note, no higher rank than a captain in Her Majesty's Army, a non-practicing doctor and a blogger, no less. He knew this impression would only be furthered by the outdated, crumpled suit now waiting for him on the bed in the other room. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that it was several moments before he realized that Mary was calling to him from the sitting room.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me, John? Any other women I should be aware of?"

"What are you on about? I can hardly handle you. What makes you think I could juggle another woman?"

"Well, someone certainly has their eye on you. This just came by messenger. From a woman named Abby?"

Mary waddled into the room, now very pregnant indeed, holding a black garment bag printed with large white lettering, reading "Harrods." John wrinkled his brow, trying to figure out why the expensive-looking black bag now sat on top of his old suit. Unzipping it cautiously, John was taken aback by what was neatly hanging inside. John's eyes rolled so far back into his head that they physically hurt.

"Damn it, now I have to go."

...

John walked toward 221B in the outfit that Abigail had provided for him. Admittedly, he did feel more confident and, in perfect honesty, taller than normal. The handmade Italian silk tuxedo was lined with a deep navy satin which could only be described as delightful. The pressed white shirt was fitted but not tight, allowing the matching navy bow tie to sit comfortably around his neck. The designer black leather shoes had a surprising amount of give to them, making walking around London a not unpleasant experience. The lamb's wool coat was warm against the chill February air which rendered any other form of covering unnecessary. Before leaving, Mary made him walk the length of the sitting room several times before being satisfied with the way the fabric of the trousers defined his buttocks. He felt like a Hollywood star ready for the Oscars and could not stop smiling for the life of him.

As he approached the familiar old door, a stretch limousine pulled up at the kerb. The driver moved quickly around the car, opening the door to reveal two long, thin legs. John almost stopped dead as Abigail, dressed in a form-fitting red gown, emerged elegantly from the backseat. Her long brunette curls were swept to one side, brushing her bare shoulders as she turned toward John. For the second time in a week, John nervously spun the ring on his left hand.

"Well, I say! Do I have good taste in clothes! Dr Watson, you look smashing!"

"You look... Um... Yeah, brilliant. Great."

"I certainly hope your wife receives better compliments from you than that. Now, where is your boyfriend? I want to see if his tux looks as good on him as yours does on you. Ah, speak of the devil..."

Sherlock exited the flat wearing a similarly, well-tailored tux and bow tie, his signature coat folded over one arm. His hair was somewhat tamed, though one rouge curl had broken free on his forehead. Abigail made a noise like a child looking into a sweet shop. John turned to see her eyeing his best friend, a hungry animal after a savoury piece of meat. As Sherlock busied himself with the door lock, John turned to Abigail who was now practically licking her lips at the sight of the man's backside.

"Ok so why were you never romantically involved? You clearly find him attractive!"

"Trust me, Watson, I did consider it once. But at the end of the day, he's just not my type."

Abigail slipped into the car and began to scooted into one of the long seats.

"What? Tall, dark and handsome?"

"No, sweetie. Male."

John was instantly reminded of "the woman" as Sherlock approached the vehicle, causing him to shake his head. Just before ducking in, he lowered his voice so that only Sherlock could hear.

"Remind me never to introduce you to Harry. I don't think I could stand having you for a brother-in-law."

Sherlock sat in silence for the entire car ride trying to decipher what John meant by that comment.

...

As the limousine pulled up to the Hotel entrance, John was hit by the scale of what he was about to walk into. The stairs were covered with red carpeting and the doors were flanked by two men in matching, highly decorated uniforms. Rows of lit candelabras lined the stairwell inside, decorated with freshly cut flowers, ribbon and small statuettes. A queue of people was already waiting to head up to the banqueting hall. Each was more extravagantly dressed than the next. John swallowed hard as he identified four Dames, three Knights and a BAFTA winner. Sherlock turned when he realised that his friend had stopped walking.

"Come along, John, we can't manage without you. You're our 'in.'"

John's look of utter hopelessness was replaced with sheer befuddlement.

"What? But, I thought Abigail was…"

"Abigail got us in, but it's your job to talk to the man. Try to earn his trust. Get him to reveal something about himself that we can use. A motive. A confession. Something."

John shook his head almost a little too violently. His insecurities began to mount once more.

"No, Abigail is much better suited. What would we have to talk about?"

Sherlock walked over to his friend, placing two hands on his shoulders, holding his eye contact.

"You're a decorated war hero, a trained surgeon; you write, with a successful following. You're much more intelligent than you give yourself credit for; a husband, a father... We need you, John. You are the only one of us who can pull this off."

A warm feeling of accomplishment swept over John as his best friend beamed at him with pride.

"So, what's this one, then? Southwark? Croydon?"

"No, this one is entirely new. I think I'll just call it... 'Watson.'"

Pulling himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders, John stepped forward through the open doors, beaming widely.

"So then... to battle!"


	10. Business Proposal

**Chapter 10**

_September 2009_

Sherlock and Abigail walked hand in hand through the art gallery, giggling like school children. Many of the other patrons watched with disdain at the public displays of affection being shown by the two as they walked through the exhibit. As the snogging couple reached the upper level, Sherlock looked around. Three patrons, no guards, no gallery staff.

With a smile, he whispered in Abigail's ear. A shocked look came over her face which quickly broke into a smile. She hit his shoulder playfully before laughing.

"Naughty!"

With a devilish grin and a gesture to a nearby door, Sherlock took her by the waist, leading her inside. She giggled loudly as one of the other patrons rolled their eyes.

As soon as the door closed, however, both smiles and pretences dropped. Abigail spoke as she locked the door.

"Six and a half minutes, starting now."

Sherlock immediately set to work. Careful not to disturb more than dust, he looked over every paper, in every drawer, and under every book. As the minutes ticked by, Abigail turned to watch him going through the desk.

"If it's not here and we're caught, the owner won't pay us."

"Is money all you think about?"

"When it's the difference between living in the same flat with you or paying both our rents, yes!"

"It saves more money if we live together."

"But it saves my sanity of we don't. Now hurry up!"

"It must be here somewhere…"

Sherlock started to knock around the desk and floor as Abigail returned to her post. Finally, with a grunt of triumph, the consulting detective lifted a rug and revealed a small safe under the desk chair.

Abigail's leg bounced nervously as she actively listening at the door.

"Hurry, Holmes. I hear guards. Two at least."

Just as the safe popped open, the door was unlocked and the director of the gallery entered with two police officers. He stopped when he saw Abigail.

"Ms. Bunting! Mr. Holmes! What the bloody hell are you doing in my office?"

But Sherlock ignored him, instead holding a single piece of paper above his head.

"Officers! Glad you're here. Please arrest this man for embezzlement and art smuggling!"

After a great deal of explanation from Abigail and a near confrontation between Sherlock and one of the other officers, the consulting detective once again sat in his chair, in his flat, eyes fixed above the mantel.

His young neighbor entered, face bright and happy as she counted out money.

"That's… 5, 6, 7, 800 pounds for me and 800 for you. I'll just put that towards your rent, shall I?"

Without waiting for a response, she pocketed the money. Not once was his attention broken from the scraps of paper and photos above the fireplace. With a deep sigh, Abigail plopped into a chair, looking at her companion with a contented smile.

"That was a lot of fun, you know. Never done that with a bloke before."

"What are you talking about? We caught an embezzler last month, as well."

She gave a hollow laugh.

"Snogging. I've never snogged a bloke before. Let alone in public."

"You went on a date with one last week. What was his name?"

"Jacobs. And that wasn't a date so much as - well a business proposal."

"Oh? Could be quite lucrative judging by the leftovers of foie gras and crème brûlée stinking up your flat."

"Yes, I think so. Offered me a posh flat in Chelsea, a private car, expense account, even a title!"

"Very nice. In exchange for what, exactly? I'm assuming he wants something incredible after all that."

"He does, in fact. He wants me to marry him."

Sherlock looked over for just a moment to consider the woman sitting next to him.

"Did you inform him that you're a lesbian?"

"Of course. He said that's part of the appeal. He doesn't really want a wife, you see. He wants a beard. Wants me to date him, marry him, then break his heart, all before this time next year."

"To what end?"

"Appearances, no doubt."

"Well, then you should take it. Sounds like very fair terms to me."

"Yes. I am considering it. There's only one condition I take issue with. It means I'd have to leave you. All this, I mean. Wouldn't be able to do cases, I mean."

Sherlock didn't remove his attentions from the wall.

"Sounds like you have a decision to make."

She smiled sweetly at him.

"No, I don't."

He gave a small huff, catching Abigail's eyes out of the corner of his own.

"Really? With money being all you think about on cases? You could pay for several flats with that kind of money."

"Oh, please! If I wanted a sexles, heterosexual relationship, I'd just marry you!"

"You don't seem the type to settle for a loveless marriage."

"I didn't say 'loveless.'"

Sherlock' face fell slightly, but Abigail had turned her attentions above the fireplace.

"So? What are you working on, then?"

Abigail's brow furrowed as she recognized her own photograph, emitting a loud sigh.

"This again?"

Sherlock's voice was distant and dry.

"Something doesn't add up. Why would he just let you go? He had you in his grasp. There - right in his hands! And he just - kills himself? There's no logic there."

"Holmes, this isn't healthy. This obsession you have - it's done! It's over, he's dead!"

"I'm not seeing all the pieces. They're there! I'm just not looking from the right angle!"

With a grunt, she stood, making her way to the door.

"Well, feel free to look at it sideways, backways, up-ways and standing on your head, for all I care. The information is never going to change. I'm going to the shops. See you in a few!"

As the door closed behind her, Sherlock finally broke focus. She was right, of course. The information wasn't going to change, so his perspective had to. He looked to the skull sitting beside his chair.

"Well, then. Time for a new angle."


	11. A Little Teapot

**Chapter 11**

_February 2015_

John followed Abigail and Sherlock into the lavishly decorated room. His jaw dropped as he took in the immense space, high ceilings and grandiose spectacle of splendor that was the ballroom. Every part of the floor seemed to be occupied by one gorgeous person after another. A hard swallow was meant to steady his heart rate but only succeeded in accentuating the nervous lump in his throat.

His companions, however, seemed more than a little at home in the storied locale. John knew that Sherlock had never been one for parties, or crowds in general. In fact, he distinctly remembered his best friend being uncomfortable enough to leave his wedding reception without so much as a word. While the new groom had understood at the time, it had made him more than a little… upset wasn't the right word. Sympathetic? He'd always wished the detective were more comfortable in social situations, if only for his own sake. But that would be changing Sherlock, which was something he most definitely did not want to do.

Here, however, John wouldn't have known it was the same man. A wide, inviting smile was spread across his face, the wrinkles around his eyes more than obvious each time he laughed. He was laughing. Something John had only seen his best friend do a handful of times and never in the company of strangers. John had always thought that it was just one of the many ways the detective chose to close himself off from the world.

Though, John reminded himself: this was for a case. And Sherlock would do anything, including nearly killing himself, for a case. It shouldn't surprise John that he'd be willing to deal with 'people' for one.

He was introduced to several people that Abigail seemed to know by name. These introductions made John very apprehensive at first. He'd no idea what to say or how to act. His fears were soon squashed, however, as focus quickly shifted to other people within the hall. The doctor was suddenly very grateful for the expensive costume as it afforded him a certain anonymity. He blended in so completely with the other guests that he was able to move about almost unnoticed. Except for Sherlock. The detective was always aware of where his best friend was in the room, and endeavored to be within sight of him at all times. Something for which John was immeasurably grateful.

Finally, after meeting what seemed to be hundreds of people, the soldier heard Abigail speak brightly.

"Ah! Aaron! Just the man I was hoping to see this evening! Might I introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his colleague, Captain John Watson."

An impeccably dressed man turned to meet John's eye after smiling politely at his companions. He wasn't tall, but was most certainly formidable in appearance. Though he stood just a few inches above John, he seemed twice as broad, carrying himself as one would expect of a man twice his height. His wristwatch and other accessories screamed of money, while the tuxedo itself was very understated. Sherlock reached forward to shake the man's hand, smiling broadly.

"Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your…"

But the detective got little more than a glance from the CEO before all attention was on John.

"Captain, was it? What branch, then?"

The doctor looked over to his friend who merely smirked, turning his attention to other guests. Sherlock had been expecting Hosmer's reaction, then. It made sense, once John thought about it. He'd want to avoid Abigail, since she was technically an employee, and surely, a man in the secret-keeping business had heard of the great sleuth of Baker Street. Both should be ignored at all costs. And what better excuse than speaking to a fellow old soldier to whom he'd just been introduced? John smiled to himself as he put two and two together, shaking the man's outstretched hand.

"Royal Army Medical Corps. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I take it you're a military man, yourself?"

"Major Aaron Hosmer, most pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Ah, Major."

John gave a small but appropriate salute. Hosmer returned the gesture and began to turn his attentions elsewhere. Abigail, who had been eavesdropping the entire time, noticed and quickly acted to ensure their plan would not go awry.

"Aaron, I wanted to talk to you about Jacobs-"

"So, Captain, family man, I see."

John glanced down at the ring on his left hand, but not before seeing the smug look of satisfaction on Abigail's face.

"Yes. Newly married with one on the way, already. Any day now, in fact."

"And will she be returning to work after the happy event? Your wife, I mean?"

The expectant father caught the corner of Sherlock's eye for the briefest of moments, but that was all it took to convey the message. With a silent, but deep, breath, John called to mind every lesson, every bit of training, that the consulting detective had given him to prepare him for this moment. He lowered his voice, giving a sly look around to give the impression of one imparting secret information.

"I'm a little old school, myself. A woman's place is in the home, with the children, if you ask me. No sense running around and wasting time at a pin-money job when there's a perfectly good one at home not being done. I know that's not a very popular opinion…"

Hosmer failed to suppress a smile, lowering his voice to match John's and moving closer.

"I couldn't agree more! I knew I liked you for some reason, Captain!"

Another brief look to Sherlock confirmed his glowing pride at his best friend's job well done.

The plan went like clockwork from there. Abigail stayed close by just in case the CEO needed another push, but after a while, John gave her a nod indicating that she could freely roam the party.

The two old soldiers were three whiskey straights in when the doctor took a moment to take stock of all he'd accomplished. Over the hour they had spent together, they'd discussed everything from a woman's rightful place, through who should and shouldn't be paying taxes, to banning Muslims from the UK. There were several times when John couldn't quite believe the disgusting words falling from his lips. Ideas that, even a straight-laced conservative like himself, found absolutely outrageous and deplorable. Even so, they left his tongue with incredible ease and grace, almost as if the thoughts were really his own. Whatever he was saying must have been working, however, because the cunning business man was eating up every word like candy.

As the bartender began to pour the fourth glass, Hosmer finally asked the question the doctor had been waiting for.

"So, your nutter friend, the detective…"

It was everything John could do to stop his blood from boiling as he waved a finger in the air to stop the billionaire.

"Employer. Not friend."

"Oh? I thought differently from the way I've seen you two in the papers. Almost a bit of funny business, I thought."

John laughed derisively as he took the whiskey, lowering his voice.

"He pays me a little extra to appear that way but, really, I'm a glorified body guard. Just there to take out the garbage, if you know what I mean."

The CEO got a glint in his eyes that the old army doctor was all too familiar with: the excitement that only came with a love of violence.

"Bit of dirty work, now and again, eh?"

John grinned in turn.

"Sherlock always says he picks up where the law leaves off. The truth is, we take care of what the law is too afraid of. I have to say, I did miss it."

"Miss what?"

"Getting paid to… take care of things. One never gets over the rush, I tell you."

Hosmer laughed under his breath.

"I know what you mean. Though, it's difficult to do the dirty work myself, anymore. Have to contract out for most of it."

"Bet you still get that rush, though, yeah? Just knowing you had a hand?"

"More than you know. Just the other day, in fact. This particularly pesky employee making waves of trouble. Cripple. Odd little duck. But she was silenced before she caused too much damage."

"It always interested me, how hiring out for that sort of thing would work. Holmes had a hard time finding me, I tell you."

"Oh, dear boy, you should know! One should look no further than ex military. I have a few contacts left from the good old days. Of course, now, I just use their sons."

"And you trust the deed is done? Just like that?"

"I always require photographic confirmation. I never take a man's word for anything anymore. Too many greedy blokes like me out there."

John was about to say something else when his pocket began to ring loudly. His face flushing, he grabbed the mobile.

"So sorry. It's the little woman."

"Take your time, son."

John opened the call, taking the slightest step away from the bar.

"Hello?"

"Love! I'm so sorry, I know it's your last case and all, but little Watson doesn't seem to want to wait for daddy!"

"Wait, are you saying…"

"I'll meet you at the hospital, Molly is giving me a ride!"

John beamed, all of the excitement from the case and now her words culminating in an almost giddy giggle.

"I'll be right there! Don't you dare push without me!"

He ended the call and replaced the phone to his pocket, still beaming as he turned back to the crooked businessman.

"Good news, was it?"

"The best! I'm going to be a father tonight!"

He turned to find Sherlock, but stopped, still grinning like mad.

"But before I go, just a couple things. My wife is the strongest person I've ever met, present company included, and she could do any job better than any man ever could. Taxes are not something you can pick and choose to pay, and an entire religion of people should not be punished for the sins of a few nut jobs. And furthermore…"

He took a moment to revel in the stunned and disgusted look on the CEO's face as the expectant father took a final swig of whiskey.

"Sherlock Holmes is the greatest man this planet has ever seen and I will breathe my last defending my best friend from scum like you."

John removed a recording device from his top pocket, a smug look on his face as he wiggled it in front of Hosmer.

"Enjoy prison."

John tossed the recorder to Sherlock as he passed the consulting detective, DI Lestrade and half a dozen officers standing not twenty feet from the baffled billionaire.

Sherlock escorted Abigail to the waiting limousine after the Yard had left with Hosmer. As they neared the doors, she clung to his arm sleepily.

"Are you headed to hospital, then?"

"Not quite yet. I'll wait for John to call. Give them a chance to get to know the little one first."

As they reached the vehicle, Sherlock opened the door for her, making her smile.

"You coming with?"

"No, I think I'll walk home. It's a pleasant enough night. Wait for John's call."

But Abigail didn't enter the car just yet. Instead, she moved that tiny bit closer to the detective.

"I must say, I've missed this."

"What, getting dressed up and attending meaningless frivolities under the illusion of assumed power and belabored entertainment?"

She smiled broadly, reaching up to gently caress his cheek. At first, Sherlock felt the urge pull away, but some part of him yearned to feel the touch of her hand once more, forcing him still. But something made her stop just before his skin. His heart pounded with longing as she replaced her hand by her side.

"No, silly. I miss the thrill of the chase. It was nice to feel it again. One last time, anyway."

"I take it you're back to Bristol, then?"

"Maybe. I got an offer from a gentleman in Kent. I was considering it."

He nodded solemnly, suddenly feeling the same loneliness he'd become all too familiar with in recent months.

"Just… try not to be a stranger this time."

The woman sighed, looking forlorn as she took her seat in the waiting car.

"I wasn't the one who chose to be a stranger, Holmes."

He wanted to say something. Wanted to find some combination of words to convey an apology. But he simply stood there as she stared into his bright eyes. With another sigh, she seemed to grow tired of waiting, putting a hand on the door and slowly pulling it closed.

"Take care of yourself, Holmes."

Sherlock watched as the car pulled away and long after it had disappeared from view.

A half hour later, Sherlock was almost back at Baker Street, lost in his own mind, when a buzz in his pocket called him back to the present. All thought ceased, however, as he read the words which appeared on the screen.

_I'm a little teapot, lean and cross_

_Who'll put Sherlock on his arse_

_A tiny microchip you will find_

_To help put this one case behind_

_Then focus on the mystery daunting_

_The one you've always found most haunting_

_Remember where you foiled me last_

_Our final play now has been cast_

_Hurry, quickly, don't delay_

_Or Abigail will soon decay._


	12. Sobriety

**Chapter 12**

_September 2009_

Abigail unlocked the door to Sherlock's apartment, arms full of shopping. With some effort, she managed to push the door open and awkwardly dance inside.

"Holmes? You home? I brought the fertilized chicken eggs. No idea why you want-"

With a gasp, she dropped the bags, a scream catching in her throat.

"H-Holmes!"

Heart pounding in her ears, she scrambled to the detective's side. His body was limp over the chair, skin as pale as death, eyes rolled up into his skull. Gently but quickly, she tried to take his pulse and listen for breathing.

"No no no no no no this can't happen again, not again, not like Peter…"

Finally, she heard the faintest of breath sounds. She slapped him, frantically, and he gave a weak moan.

"Sherlock! What did you take? When? How? _Why?!_"

After a quick search, Abigail found a wrinkled list of drugs in his hand. She scanned it, briefly, fighting back tears and shaking her head.

"You stupid man! You stupid, stupid man!"

She carefully folded the list, placing it safely in her pocket before trying to lift the frail frame of the detective. His soft groans only made her heart clench more painfully.

"Come on, we have to get you to hospital. We have to get you to hospital, _now_..."

It was then that the detective slumped into the soft black leather like butter on a warm roll, all breath slowing almost to a stop.

Abigail felt her heart stop as she realized what was happening. Her eyes grew large and she lunged forward, trying desperately to avert the inevitable. Breathing so sharply that her lungs burned, she began to shake him, violently.

"No no no no no, Holmes, you will not do this to me! Holmes! _Sherlock! Wake the bloody hell up!_"

With a mighty slap, the young woman managed to get him to open his eyes for the briefest of moments and elicited another groan.

She was now practically screaming.

"You will not die! I will not let you! This is not going to happen, not again! You are _not_ Peter!"

With a shaking hand, she grabbed her mobile, dialling the all too familiar number.

"Abby? What-"

"Greg! I need you! I need an ambulance! Sherlock, he's- he's alive, but I need medical assistance _now_!"

"I'll be there in ten."

"Just hurry, for God's sake, hurry!"

As the phone clicked off, Abigail spent the longest six minutes of her life doing everything in her power to keep him breathing, until the paramedics finally arrived and took over. As they loaded him into the ambulance, a flustered Lestrade appeared at her side. Before she could explain, the situation finally got the better of her and she collapsed, weeping, into the DI's arms.

...

_October 2009_

Sherlock sat in the corner of the bright and airy room, nibbling feverishly at his nails as he stared out onto the perfectly manicured courtyard. Though his eyes were firmly set on the nurse and patient making lazy circles around the pebbled path, his mind was miles away. As the couple paced, so did he, up and down his mind palace. He was desperately searching for something, _anything_, to keep his mind still. He estimated how many pebbles were being crunched under foot with the pedestrians' every step... How many pebbles littered the entire path... How many tons of rock sat in the courtyard... How many tons it would take to crush the two strollers to death.

A rap at the door caused him to turn, letting the perambulators live. For now.

"Come in."

Abigail gently turned the handle, smiling as she entered the room, a newspaper tucked under her arm.

"Hello! How's our favorite patient holding up?"

He huffed, slumping into the only chair in the hospital room.

She smiled, busying herself with straightening the room.

"You know, this place was _clean_ when I left yesterday. Least you could do is keep it that way for 24 hours. And you need to eat something! Just look at this tray. Did you even _taste_ it?"

"I don't need food; I need a _case_! Locked in this _boring_ room for six _boring_ weeks. The least you could do is bring me something interesting while I'm locked away from the world."

"It's _rehab_, Holmes, not jail. Besides, you're halfway through it, already. And, it just so happens, I have brought you something interesting."

She handed him the newspaper which was already open at the appropriate full page article.

"Sir Jeffery Patterson found dead this morning. All signs point to suicide, but his mistress is convinced that the wife…"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead, his eyes were firmly fixed on the large stone now gracing the third finger of her outstretched hand.

"You said yes."

She sighed, lowering the paper and trying to catch his eye.

"Yes. I did."

"He make you a good offer, then?"

"Yes, actually. So, about this case-"

He reached forward, snatching the paper from her hands.

"Just give it to me; I doubt I'll need _your_ help on it."

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"So, what, I said yes and now you hate me, is that it?"

He didn't respond, opting to scan the paper instead.

"You know, just because I said I'd marry him doesn't mean I'm _abandoning_ you. I'll still come by-"

"No, worse, you're abandoning the work!"

He lowered the paper to see the look of shock and hurt on her face.

"It's your work, not mine! And I can still help, still be useful."

"Oh please, you were never _useful_."

"I saved your bloody life!"

"You acted on instinct, prompted by the situation, because you didn't want to feel responsible for my death like when your brother-"

A hard slap across his face stopped him dead. His cheek stinging, he looked up at the livid woman now breathing heavily in front of him.

"How _dare_ you!"

Sherlock felt his blood begin to boil as he stood, leaning forward to match her eye level.

"How dare I, what? Compare myself to your precious brother, Peter? Why shouldn't I? It's exactly the same, except I overdosed for a better reason."

Tears now brimming in Abigail's eyes, "Oh? And what reason was that?"

"To solve a case! I wouldn't have-"

The young woman was now nearly screaming, "A_ case_? You almost killed yourself for a bloody _case_?!"

"Your attacker didn't just kill himself! He wouldn't just let you live and then _kill himself_! Something had to have happened! Something…"

"M-my case? You mean to tell me that you took heroin, cocaine and morphine to solve a case that's been finished for _months_ now?"

"What part of this don't you understand? It's not over! You should be_ dead_!"

"So, if I were dead, the case would be solved and you'd be happier, is that it?"

"Yes!"

Sherlock was about to say something else when an orderly burst into the room and headed straight for him, but Abigail put out a hand, to stop him.

"It's alright. It's alright, I'm leaving."

"Good!"

She walked to the door, but turned back before passing the orderly.

"Call me when you've calmed down. And I'll expect an apology, too."

He scoffed, looking back at the people strolling the courtyard.

With a sigh, Abigail walked out of the room.

"Take care of yourself, Holmes."

...

_January 2010_

Mike Stamford entered the Path Lab, rapping his knuckles on the door.

"Sherlock? Busy?"

"Hum."

Sherlock scribbled on a piece of paper before returning focus to his microscope.

"Just wanted to say 'hello.' See how the flat search was coming along."

"I found a little place in central London, but even with the deal the landlady is giving me, it's still out of my price range."

"What about a flat-share? Then you could get this place you're talking about."

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

"You can always call Ms. Bunting and-"

"No."

His tone was flat and final, causing Mike to sigh.

"I still think a flatmate is a good idea. At least, consider it. I'll keep an eye out, shall I?"

"Go right ahead. It'll be a challenge. No doubt I'm a rather difficult man to find a flatmate for."

Mike laughed quietly as he left Sherlock to his work.

"I'll keep my ears open, anyway."

As the door closed, the consulting detective finally looked up from his work, eyeing his phone. After a moment's thought, he flipped to Abigail's name in the directory. Thoughts swirled in his mind as he debated calling or texting. But, ultimately, his decision was made for him with a lack of mobile signal. It was just as well, he thought, and continued his work.


	13. Consequences

Chapter 13

February 2015

Sherlock arrived at the old Poplar building in record time. Since he and Abigail had stayed there, the flats had been remodelled, but construction had not quite finished. He made short work of the padlock on the front door, letting himself in with ease. Soon after, the consulting detective found himself in front of the same flat he'd stormed out of all those years ago.

Slowly, he pushed open the door, his stoic demeanour firmly in place. Among the dust and exposed wires, he found Abigail, bound, gagged and unconscious in a chair.

He resisted the urge to run to her aid, instead scanning the small flat. Building is completely empty. Power not completely restored, generators powering this section of the building. At least two of the construction workers smoke, one chews, one is a problem drinker. The building across the street is vacant, also being remodelled but different contracting companies.

Finally, Sherlock turned his attentions to the man sitting next to Abigail. Mid-sixties, well-groomed, fit. Clothes: top of the line, designer. West London native, judging by his posture. Has always known money. Married then divorced 2… No, 3 times. Blames the break up on them, not his alcohol abuse. Hint of aftershave that smells… Clive Christian 1872, why did that raise a flag?

The man gave a smug chuckle as he watched Sherlock enter. His accent was strong and posh, further confirming the detective's West London theory.

"Not expecting me, were you? I'm a far cry from the man I sent to do my dirty work 6 years ago. I should have known better. Should have done the job myself. But… that's what hiring out will get you. So difficult to find good help these days, wouldn't you agree?"

"It would depend on the work. Personally, I think it would be hard in any century to convince someone to kill another then themselves. But perhaps that's just me."

"To be fair, they didn't know they were off to their own deaths. But, if people are truly desperate enough, they'll do anything for a bit of cash: break in somewhere, kill someone, marry a stranger…"

Something clicked inside his great mind causing Sherlock to take an almost imperceptible gasp. The aftershave: the one on Abigail's lips when she had first come to Baker Street.

The man smiled at the reaction he had elicited.

"Though, we mustn't judge the poor girl too harshly, you and I. We did make her this way, after all."

Sherlock cocked his head ever so slightly.

"Oh? And how do you reach that conclusion?"

"Abigail - was always a special one, for me."

Pausing in his speech, the man began to casually play with the long strands of brunette hair cascading over Abigail's slumped shoulders. Sherlock's spine straightened in an attempt to steady himself as his anger grew, and the man continued.

"I followed her long before I devised my scheme. Long before I arranged my first adventure. She… was to be my masterpiece. The creme de la creme. I studied her every move, her habits, her musings, her whims, her follies. So fragile. So fair. Just floating through life. Bouncing from Uni to Uni. No purpose. No direction. Merely a passenger on the planet, not a true member of society. Not a hindrance, not an asset. Just… there. But I was going to change all that…"

As the man spoke, Sherlock began to scan the room for anything he could use. Anything at his disposal. A discarded nail gun in the corner. Several pieces of broken and spare tiles on the counter. A plastic bag containing only painter's tape, on the floor. Drywall dust on every surface.

"...I was going to make her a national wonder. A tragic tale of a life ended before she had really lived. Then: the surprise of my life. She saw through me. Straight through the camera in the teapot and directly into my plans. When she survived, I first took it as an insult. Waited for the perfect time to send my most loyal minion to finish the job the hired help couldn't. But he, too, failed. Thanks to the great Sherlock Holmes…"

The detective had begun making slow, but steady, progress toward the items in the room he thought most helpful. The man continued to play lazily with Abigail's hair as he watched the object of his disdain circle the room.

"...So, I decided to let things play out. See if our young friend would take advantage of the extraordinary gift I had inadvertently bestowed upon her. I had nearly given up all hope when she finally made her way to the first case with you. It was then, I knew; I needed a new plan. I would watch her rise to the pinnacle of her possibilities then, in one fell swoop, dash you both from greatness. A true national tragedy."

"Us both?"

Sherlock had finally made it to the objects of his attention and stopped just within arm's reach of them.

"Well, you did interrupt my plans. Couldn't exactly let you get off scot-free, now could I? I did have a backup plan, should you never come into contact again. But, luckily for you, Mrs. Hudson will continue to live. For now."

Sherlock's blood boiled at the mention of his landlady's name. Then, as the man blinked, Sherlock took advantage of the fact, reaching for the tiles on the kitchen counter. As his hand closed around them, however, a high-pitched whistle and a wet thud resounded around the room. The detective stared, in shock, as a single bullet pierced the devilish man's skull, spattering his brains across the fresh white paint of the walls.

As his mind fully came to grips with what had just happened, Sherlock lunged forward, tackling Abigail and the chair she was strapped to, to the floor. When a small groan from the woman confirmed her well-being, he scrambled to the window, peering out for a sight of his rescuer. Second story of the building across the road. Likely the third window from the corner, second flat in.

With all the speed he could muster, Sherlock quickly dialled 999, while running to the tenement building where the shooter must surely be hiding.

"Emergency services: which service do you require?"

"Paramedics, a coroner and Detective Inspector Lestrade! Twenty-seven Giraud St., flat 2G. Hurry!"

"Sir, I don't -"

Sherlock clicked the call off, just as he reached the flat across the street, opposite the address he'd just given. The door was partially open, and the detective began to entered with caution. It didn't take long to determine that, whoever it was, had fled. The flat was completely empty, save for a rifle on a tripod, poised just in from of the window.

Approaching the gun with care, Sherlock began to examine it, making sure to slip on his leather gloves as he did so. The L85, standard issue rifle of the British Army. Quite old, but in good working order, barely a scratch on it. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for…

On the butt of the rifle, in bright red letters, it bore a single word: CONSEQUENCES.

Before he could get a closer look, however, the sirens announced the approaching reinforcements and he headed for the street.

As the paramedics made their way upstairs, Sherlock was only a step behind them and the female paramedic began to ask questions.

"Who's injured? What are the nature of the injuries?"

"I believe she was poisoned by the man next to her. Most likely a paralytic laced with potassium cyanide…"

"What man?"

Sherlock's brow creased with confusion as he rounded the corner.

"'What man?' The man with his head blown to -"

But as he turned, he saw only Abigail, lying exactly where Sherlock had left her. His jaw dropped as he scanned the room, but the only evidence of her assailant was the brain matter peppering the walls around the two people working feverishly to revive Abigail.


	14. New Beginnings

**Chapter 14**

_February 2015_

Sherlock walked into Abigail's hospital room some three hours later, wearing his long, dark coat and his stoic demeanour. She smiled weakly as he approached, attempting to sit up.

"So? Did you find the body, yet?"

He shook his head, stopping just at the foot of her bed. She frowned while trying to make herself more comfortable.

"Well, he can't have gotten far. Having no head and all."

Sherlock cracked a small smile, his eyes dancing in the light.

"How are you feeling?"

"Well, you know… I thought I'd go for a run later. Get in shape for St. Valentine's Day, the usual."

She grinned, sitting back and sighing.

"Did he say why he did it? Why he came back for me after all this time?"

"Not precisely, but he did say he was waiting until you'd 'reached your potential.'"

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"Nothing like hearing from a psychotic serial murderer that you've peaked. But still… I never would have thought Mr Andrews was capable of something like this."

"You knew him?"

"Old family friend. Came to every Christmas and Easter gathering. Always brought gifts and things. Mum always thought he'd paid a bit too close attention to me. When he asked me to be his beard, I thought that confirmed it, but this… never saw this coming."

"Everyone is capable of incredible feats. It's whether or not we act on them."

"Ah, there's that cheery optimism in humanity I've always missed!"

Sherlock gave a soft chuckle, finally smiling completely.

"What will you do now? Find another ring to wear?"

"No. Not for me. I think the 'marriage for hire' thing has somewhat lost its appeal at this point. But I can't stay here. If anything, this entire experience had proven that it's time to move on. Professionally and geographically. I have some real estate property in Sydney. An old gift from husband number two."

"More 'independent threat analysis?'"

She shook her head, but stopped rather abruptly, wincing.

"No. I think it's time for me to try something new. Once you've 'peaked,' it's time to move on. Besides, I think Detective Inspector Bunting will have a nice ring to it, don't you?"

"You can call me for a consult anytime."

"I'll hold you to that. You've stayed away too long, Holmes."

He sighed, lowering his eyes.

"Yes, well… Abigail, I'm not great at apologies -"

"Stop. You've saved my life three times. All you owe me is a text once in a while."

His brow furrowed.

"Three times?"

She nodded, beaming brightly.

"Three times. Now, off with you. I need my beauty sleep, and I'm sure Watson will be dying to show off that new baby girl of his."

With a nod, he started for the door, but stopped just before it, turning back.

"Abby, I -"

She held up a hand to silence him.

"I know, Sherlock. Me, too."

Another nod, and he closed the door behind him.

Just before reaching the entrance to the maternity ward, Sherlock heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Wait! Wait up!"

He turned to face the Detective Inspector.

"Lestrade! Tell me you found the body."

Several people around them stared at Sherlock for a moment in horror, but he neither noticed nor cared. Slightly out of breath, Greg reached his friend and lowered his voice.

"We did. Single gunshot wound to the head. DNA matches the blood at the Poplar flat. DNA also confirms identity as Edward P. Andrews, respectable businessman, or so everyone thought."

"I have to see the crime scene immediately. Just let me pop in here, and -"

"You can't."

Sherlock's brow creased and his voice raised to almost a shout.

"What do you mean, I 'can't?!'"

Lestrade lowered his voice, looking around at the staff and patients now openly staring at them.

"I mean, the body was found in Dartford, a mile outside of London Metropolitan limits."

Sherlock scoffed loudly, which grew to a growling roar. He began to violently bang his ankle, baring the tracking device, against the wall, causing severe alarm throughout the ward. Lestrade had to flash his badge and shove his friend into the hallway. The disgruntled consulting detective began to pace the stairwell landing as he ruffled his hair, angrily.

"How - ? When - ?"

"About an hour ago. We received an anonymous tip-off that the body was in an alleyway, behind a dumpster. The body was recovered and is being examined now."

"I have to see it, all the photos I can get, speak to the coroner -"

"As soon as Kent clears access, it's all yours. I've already made sure Molly is the one handling it. But, that could be hours from now. "

Sherlock growled again, balling his fists like a child.

"During which time, valuable evidence may be destroyed after passing through so many hands!"

"I'm sorry, it's out of my control! The fact that I let you at crime scenes is a breach of protocol. There's no way Kent will allow you near this investigation until it's back in our court."

Sherlock stared at the wall for a long moment, trying to keep himself in check. With a deep breath he turned around.

"The gun. The original crime scene. That's still in your immediate purview, yes?"

"Yes. Speaking of the gun…"

He dug into his pocket for his phone, pulling up images of the rifle.

"No prints, no registration, but it's standard -"

"Standard British Army issue from 1986 to present day. Yes, I know all that! What did you find?"

Lestrade sighed, flipping to a photo of the red letters.

"A message to the victim. This was personal. Revenge."

But Sherlock shook his head, speaking under his breath.

"No. Not a message to Andrews."

"Then… who was it for?"

Instead of answering his colleague, he took a deep breath, his face relaxing.

"Thank you, Lestrade, I'll be in touch."

"But, what does -"

Sherlock left the DI behind in the stairwell, open-mouthed and stuttering.

In a matter of moments, he was knocking lightly on the Watson's hospital door, which opened quietly. John beamed the moment he saw his best friend, ushering him into the room. He followed awkwardly, making his way to yet another hospital bed. A small bundle of pink lay cooing in Mary's arms, who was also beaming brightly. John placed a loving hand on his exhausted wife's shoulders.

"Sherlock, I'd like you to meet my - our - baby girl."

But he couldn't hear the doctor's words. Instead, his attention was completely focused on the tiny blonde wisps of hair peeking from the blanket. Soft words from Mary finally pierced through the fog.

"Would you like to hold her?"

The detective's stammering response was immediately stopped as the infant was placed in his arms. At first, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do, stiffening to ensure a secure hold on the girl. But the moment he saw that face - that sweet, angelic face - a great calm entered his mind. Her features matched that of John and Mary, perfectly. Cradling the child was all Sherlock needed to conclude that she was every bit as precious to him as John and Mary were. And, in that moment, only one thought resounded in the great palace that was his mind: I must protect her.

He wasn't quite sure how long he'd been cradling the small figure wrapped in pink, when a nurse came in and announced it was feeding time. Reluctantly, Sherlock handed over the infant and headed just outside the door with John. Still staring at the door, he heard his best friend's voice as if from a long distance away.

"Sherlock, Mary and I were wondering... Well, I was really wondering... Though I'm sure this goes without saying, you must already know..."

"John, I'm sure they won't be all day with feeding her, so why don't we just skip to the point."

Sherlock was smiling as he turned to face the doctor, greatly amused by how flustered fatherhood had made his blogger.

"Yes, well, fair enough. Will you be our little girl's godfather?"

Sherlock's face went blank. He simply stared at the doctor, barely blinking.

"Not religiously, of course, though we would like you to be at the christening. It's more of a symbolic thing. Anyway, it only seems appropriate, you being the best man at our wedding…"

He continued to stare blankly as John spoke. His mind was dealing with the images and events of the past twelve hours. How two of his dearest friends had been put in harm's way simply by knowing him. Finally, the buzz of his mobile gave him more than enough excuse to break his gaze.

"Look, Sherlock, I know it's not something you normally do…"

Sherlock looked at his phone, his face remained blank as he read a simple text from Mrs Hudson: Has the baby arrived, yet? Can I come and see? John continued, slightly annoyed.

"But having a baby isn't something I'm used to, either, so…"

"I'm sorry John, I cannot accept."

His words came out so abruptly that John was shocked into silence. He blinked several times, attempting to process the impossible sentence that had just exited the thin-lipped mouth. Disbelief was written all over the doctor's face as he stared, gape-mouthed.

"You can't be serious!"

"I'm sorry, John, I have to go."

"But Sherlock! Sherlock!"

Sherlock made his way to 221B, the words still reverberating around his mind: I must protect her.

End.

_Story continues with "Those We Thought We Knew."_


End file.
